


Choices of Isolation

by banshee_in_the_dark



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: AU where Bellamy's dad is alive, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bellarke, Comfort/Angst, Eventual Romance, F/M, Father Figures, Father-Daughter Relationship, Father-Son Relationship, Friendship, Gen, Mystery, post season two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-05-01 06:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5195522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/banshee_in_the_dark/pseuds/banshee_in_the_dark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It lasts for a second, the memory, the fresh breath of home. They share a look, and it could transport her back to Camp Jaha if she let it. </p><p>This man is not Bellamy. </p><p>He just looks like him. </p><p>And, apparently, hails from the Ark.</p><p>--</p><p>AU where Bellamy's dad is alive and Clarke finds him in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, hello! A while ago there was some speculation on tumblr that the man from the Ark that Lincoln mentions his father wanted him to kill when he was a child was actually Bellamy's dad, which in my opinion is excellent foreshadowing and opens the door to introduce characters who fled the Ark and landed on Earth before the hundred did. I started writing little drabbles but quickly this AU got out of control so here we are.
> 
> As stated in the tags, this is a Bellarke fic, but there isn't much interaction between those two. Also, just to be perfectly clear, there is absolutely nothing romantic going on between Clarke and Bellamy's dad, so no worries there.
> 
> Credit for the title of this fic goes to [Maii](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiqu20/profile), and [Sarah](http://www.writingaloveaffair.tumblr.com) edited this like a pro. I do not have enough words to thank you!
> 
> Oh, and before I forget. [Here](http://www.balita.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/04/07albert.jpg) [are](http://www.balita.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/06/11albert.jpg) [some](http://www.pinoystop.com/images/thumbnails/738/738-albert-martinez-biography-400x252.png) [pics](https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/1762046034/dshypg1oozdgyhgg.jpg) of the actor I fancasted to play Bellamy's dad. His name is Albert Martinez and he's a Filipino actor. I take this AU very seriously.

She spends the first night on the dropship, though she doesn’t sleep much. Her limbs are heavy and tired but her mind refuses to give in to the temptation of rest, fearing the ghosts that will visit her in her dreams. When the sun comes up she’s awake, her veins pumping with purpose as she watches the sun peeking through the trees.

To the east there’s the sea, vast and deafening and unpredictable. She’d love to see it.

To the south there’s the Dead Zone and the fabled City of Lights, and there’s absolutely nothing about that sentence that tempts her to go in that direction.

Polis is located south-west, where Lexa holds court on a throne erected upon the bartered sacrifice of Clarke’s people. Scouts will be reaching her in the morning, before she and her army even make it there. They’ll carry dangerous news. The Coalition might’ve survived had the Sky People surrendered to their fate and let Lexa spin the events to shine a positive line on her actions before the other clan leaders. But they didn’t and it won’t be long before word of her betrayal spreads through the clans, shaking irrevocably the foundations of the Coalition. The Twelve Clans will go to war and many will die.

Her people will be dragged to that war as well, surely.

She’s not going back to Camp Jaha. She’s not going to Polis. She would go east, but she may not be able to stop and keep going, into the sea, letting the waves wash away her sins until the deep swallows her whole.

So she goes north, coasting past Mount Weather to an unfamiliar land, carrying with her what she could salvage from the dropship. She knows further up north it’s the Ice Nation’s territory, but the lands at the feet of the mountain were strictly part of Mount Weather and therefore avoided at all costs by the grounders. With the mountain at her back like a memory and her eyes devouring the new view, Clarke takes what almost feels like a cleansing breath, but not quite. Not yet.

The grass under her boots has never been disrupted, the streams never fished on. The animals aren’t afraid she might hunt them. The trees don’t glow but the riverbanks shimmer at dusk when the sun light hits them just so. She has this wide expanse of land to explore and live off and for the first time in a long time she feels safe.

She gets to enjoy it for little more than a week before she realizes she’s not alone.

She discovers the snares first, effective, little unobtrusive things she might’ve overlooked if she hadn’t stepped right onto one of them. The first one fills her with apprehension and Clarke cuts a wide berth around that section of the woods. The second one she encounters is no less scary, but it provides dinner, so.

She hears rustling another time, and the hairs on the back of her neck stand up under the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. Clarke sleeps with a hand curled around her gun after that and dreams of Bellamy lecturing her about firearms and safety.

She’s collecting nuts when she finally sees him.

A low humming teases her ears over the sound of the fast flowing mountain stream nearby. Clarke tiptoes over the damp fallen leaves, careful to not make a sound. She crouches when she reaches the top of the ravine, before it sharply descends into the shore. She quietly parts the branches of the bush before her, peeking down.

He has his back to her, arms extended before him holding a fishing pole. He’s tall and broad and he’s _singing_. And not just any song, one about a Blackbird, from the old days before the nuclear cataclysm on Earth that was preserved in the Ark’s media archives. Her father used to sing it to her for bedtime when she was a child.

He doesn’t sing much in the way of lyrics, but the beat is familiar enough and Clarke finds herself mouthing the words, letting it transport her back to a happier time.

He moves on to other songs as he fishes, some she knows and others she doesn’t, but Clarke stays, sitting behind her bush with her legs crossed, listening.

* * *

Clarke’s more careful after that. She’s not interested in or ready to make any new friends. If she wanted to talk to someone she would go back to Camp Jaha.

(Except she won’t. Can’t. Mustn’t.)

Despite her stealth and best efforts, they end up running into each other. First she notices none of his snares are propped in their usual spots, so he’s probably aware that she ran into a few of them. She’s not sure how she feels about that.

In the end, she’s catching fish with a net by the stream, a different spot than where she saw him that one time, near a gorgeous waterfall, when his sharp whistling startles her. She jumps to her feet and hurriedly spins in a circle in an effort to locate a suitable hiding place, but the shore is bare. She’s contemplating diving for cover under the water when the whistling suddenly stops.

He’s across the stream, just past the tree line. For a moment he just stares at her, sizing her up. The look on his face is inscrutable, partially because it’s obscured by a thick dark beard and a fur-lined hood but Clarke can still make out the sharp angles of his cheekbones and his dark eyes, studying her. She doesn’t detect shock or fear but there’s an element of wariness to the bold way he holds her gaze. And recognition. Clarke doesn’t know who this man is, but he knows her somehow and that doesn’t sit well with her.

She enviously eyes the belt of fat rabbits slung across his chest. So far she’s only managed to catch small rodents and the occasional fish, so she positively salivates at the idea of the tender rabbit meat practically melting in her mouth. Perhaps her hunger shows in her face and he perceives it as a sign that she’s not an imminent threat to him because he cautiously closes the distance to the shore, keeping an eye on her. It’s kind of flattering. There’s a wide stream separating them and he overpowers her by fifty pounds in her estimation. Exactly what kind of damage he fears she could do is beyond her.

She is a fairly good shot though and her handgun is within reach. She could take him out so perhaps his caution is appropriate.

Clarke gives the man a nod, holding his gaze. She only has to wait a few seconds before he warily returns it. He crouches by the stream and fills a canteen with water. He nods at her this time before turning away and disappearing into the trees.

* * *

The next time they meet, almost a week later, it’s clear something is wrong with him. Clarke eyes his troubled gait, noticing the dark patch of fresh blood soaking his left pant leg above his knee. “Are you okay?”

The words fall out of her mouth naturally, before she can think twice. She frowns. Her voice sounds strange to her, unused after weeks of solitude.

He nods slowly, swallows. “’M fine,” he croaks out. The sound seems to appall him and he shakes his head clearing his throat and clucking his tongue to the roof of his mouth a few times as if testing it. “Thank you for asking,” he says then, enunciating the words clearly and slowly. She wonders when he spoke to another person last.

He turns to leave, doing a poor job of hiding his wince. Clarke rolls her eyes, sighing loudly as she sidesteps him easily. Arms stubbornly crossed over her chest, she stares him down. “You’re in pain. I can help. _Sit_.”

He blinks, taken by surprise. Clarke takes advantage of his momentary stunned state and gently pulls him down, making him rest his back against a thick tree and extending his hurt leg before her. With that done, she focuses her efforts on starting a small fire.

He stiffens considerably when she later pulls her knife from her pocket, his brown eyes following her movements with caution. Clarke gives him a level stare as she cuts through the old denim of his pants.

“Whoa.”

She gapes at his injury, frowning. Located on the side of his thigh there are fresh claw marks, long and jagged, poorly sutured. Dark scabs cover the stitches and blood still seeps from the wound. It’s on its way to becoming infected if the swelling and redness around the edges in anything tojudge by. She gingerly touches the flesh around the wound feeling the elevated temperature there. It appears to be fairly recent which means there’s a good chance she can get ahead of the infection before it’s too late.

“How did you get this? Never mind that, what on earth did you use to stitch it up?” Clarke asks, cautiously touching the uneven stitches keeping the wound precariously closed.

“It was a panther,” he answers simply.

“Should’ve run the other way,” Clarke says conversationally, unloading her canteen and an old blackened paint can from her pack.

The mysterious man arches an eyebrow and gives her an unimpressed look. The expression is somehow familiar and foreign on his bearded face. It’s like she’s been pinned by those eyes and that look before, but can’t quite put her finger on it. She shrugs the thought away to think about later. “I tried.”

She allows just the smallest smile, more like a relaxing of features than anything resembling a real smile, and turns to her half-started fire and works on it until flames lick the logs and the sound of chirping wood fills the air. She would be lying if she said she didn’t miss taking care of people. She can’t heal her own wounds, but there’s something incredibly cathartic about digging inside an injury, burning away the wasted, infected flesh and putting it back together. If only she could do the same with her soul, smooth the jagged edges with a hot blade and cleanse it of the stench of death.

Clarke feels his eyes on her, sizing her up, but she pays it no mind and busies herself pouring half the water on her canteen on the can and setting it on top of the hot embers before throwing a handful of seaweed into it.

After it’s boiled for a couple of minutes, Clarke tugs her sleeve over her hand and pulls the can off the fire. She fishes a clean rag from her bag and drops it into the scalding water. She uses her blade to steer the contents of the can, then fishes the wet rag. White steam rises from it in contact with the cool air. She lets it air for a moment and then with no preamble drops the sopping steaming rag right over her patient’s wound.

His howl is so loud it makes Clarke jump in her spot. He quickly clamps his mouth, his sharp breath passing through his gritted teeth. He curses under his breath in a language she doesn’t recognize. Clarke glances at him, sees he’s turned a deathly shade of grey and his eyes are glossy.

“A little warning next time,” he growls a little breathlessly, his fists clenched tightly at his sides.

“Sorry.”

She gently peels off the rag from the wound, seeing that the scabs around the stitches seemed to start softening. Clarke repeats the process another three times before she’s satisfied she can safely pull the stitches.

“Not my finest work if I do say so myself,” the man grumbles seeing Clarke’s intent.

“What material did you use?”

He rummages inside his heavy coat and produces a whicker bag, showing her the contents. “Horsehair.”

Clarke tentatively grabs one long strand, holding it before her eyes for closer inspection.

The man experimentally flexes his leg but the pain doesn’t allow for much movement. He gulps down and carefully wipes away the blood tickling down the side of his thigh with his shirtsleeve. “That goddamned cat. Wasn’t even worth the trouble, the pelt was ruined when I finally offed him,” he says grumpily, fingering the glossy black pelt covering his shoulders. “It isn’t worth the trip up north to trade it.”

Still examining the horsehair, Clarke doesn’t even glance at him. “North? With the Ice People?”

He snorts. “I don’t have a death wish. There’s a small clan by the big lake, about four days from here. They’re peaceful, have no beef with anyone.”

Clarke files the information for later inspection and sets up to remove the stitches from the wound. “What’s so special about the fur?” she asks, easily maintaining a steady conversation while she cleans the injury with the seaweed water.

“It’s great thermal insulation, and thick too. Arrows don’t easily pierce it. The az gonna use them for body armor. Kind of like natural Kevlar, except they’re all covered in the stuff and look like Big Foot.”

Clarke frowns and sneaks a glance at him. That’s – well, she’s heard weirder stuff coming from other grounders, so it’s not like the bar’s pretty high, but still. Odd.

The man doesn’t seem concerned and helpfully hands Clarke more horsehair and a thin bone needle. Those too Clarke lets soak on seaweed water, unable to shake off the feeling that there’s something different about this man. “The leikgeda use it in their ritual bonding ceremonies. They gift it to the happy couples to cover their beds as a show of clan support and protection.”

She patches him up in silence after that. The horsehair is strong yet very malleable in her hands, yielding as she twists it this way and that. She manages to put the stitches close together, piercing through the edges of the wound several times. The result is three rows of neat, even stitches running like a serpentine over the jagged injury. It’ll scar like a lightning.

After closing the wound Clarke uses a flat stone to ground some more seaweed along with white willow bark and stinging nettle to help with the swelling and ease his pain. She smears the concoction on a large leaf and applies the compress directly on the wound. The man lets out a hiss at the contact, but then gradually relaxes and sighs with relief. Clarke uses another piece of rag to wrap the wound, tying it securely.

“Keep it dry. Leave it alone for the rest of the day and then change the dressing twice a day and drink plenty of seaweed tea. I trust you know where to get it?” The man nods. “Find me in ten days and I’ll remove the stitches.”

She helps him up. There’s a contemplative look on his face, like he’s struggling with himself. He absently scratches the underside of his jaw, the brittle sound of his nails against his coarse beard filling the silence between them.

He finally seems to shake himself and lifts his chin, meeting her gaze with determination swimming in his eyes. She’s seen hat look before on someone else, and it nearly takes her breath away when recognizes it. His following words have a similar effect.

“You’re from up there aren’t you? The Ark?”

Clarke looks away, anxiety slamming through her. _Oh, God._ “I am,” she confesses at last, knowing there’s no point in hiding her origin.

He narrows his eyes, absentmindedly putting weight on his injured leg to test its hold. “Then why aren’t you with the rest of your people in that big sprawling camp on the other side of the mountain?” 

Clarke worries her lip, considering how much she should say.

In the end, she answers his question simply. “I had to leave.”

He considers her for a moment, then ducks his head to hide a little smirk.

The gesture is so familiar it makes her hurt physically. In this moment, she’s not here in the woods with a stranger, but with Bellamy teasing him about getting her medicine for a sickness they know nothing off, and he ducks to cover a smile and promises to try.

It lasts for a second, the memory, the fresh breath of home. And then just as quickly she’s back.

The smirk remains in place in the stranger’s face, but there’s a touch of longing and sadness in it. “So did I, I guess,” he confesses.

They share a look, and it could transport her back to Camp Jaha if she let it.

This man is not Bellamy.

He just looks like him.

And, apparently, hails from the Ark.

He shakes himself, clears his throat. “Anyway. Thank you,” he says gruffly, offering her his hand to shake. Clarke accepts it. He lets go after a moment, pushing a wicker bag into her hands. “Here.”

Confused, Clarke pulls the string tying it closed and takes a peek inside finding a thick lock of horsehair tied in a ribbon. “I can’t accept this,” she finally says.

He refuses to take it back even as Clarke tries to shove the bag in his hands. He smirks, noticing her frustration with him. He looks so much like Bellamy right now she wants to scream. “I can get you more if you need it. Let me know,” he offers finally, swinging his pack over his shoulder and across his chest.

He carefully limps away. At the edge of the clearing he turns around. “Name’s Noah.”

“Clarke,” she calls out. He nods briefly in acknowledge before turning back and leaving.

* * *

Thus begins a friendship of sorts. It’s not often that they see each other – in fact Clarke didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of Noah the following week which frankly worried her and made her doubt he would make their appointment to remove his stitches. She wondered if he’d holed up somewhere to rest, or if he’d tripped due to his injured leg and fallen prey to a wild pack of wolves.

She resists the urge to search for him. He intrigues her. Noah poses a puzzle she can’t help but want to solve, to understand. He comes from the Ark, he admitted as much himself, but how did he end up on the ground? Did he come alone? Did he expect it would be survivable or is he one of those she heard stories about, people who were so miserable in the Ark that they stole into the first working shuttle they could find and headed straight to Earth and promised death? If so, was he disappointed? Does he regret being alive, or attempting suicide in the first place?

His resemblance to Bellamy troubles her too. It can’t be a coincidence, the gene pool was so restricted in the Ark that if two people look alike chances are they’re closely related. Clarke never heard Bellamy and Octavia talk about their father. She told Bellamy about her vision that time in the woods, about her father telling her to forgive her mother, confided she’d almost forgotten what his face looked like or how his arms felt around her when he hugged her, and how happy she was that the hallucination had brought those things to the forefront of her mind so that she could remember him fully again.

Yet not once in that entire conversation had Bellamy mentioned his father, and Clarke didn’t ask either. He did tell her about his mother. Maybe since Noah has been gone from their lives for so long, Bellamy has no memory of him. Maybe he does remember him, but thinks they were better off without him.

Regardless, Clarke wants to know. She can guess and speculate all she wants, but she doesn’t have the whole story and it’s unfair to judge Noah without having all the facts.

On the tenth day since she last saw him, Clarke wakes up to the alarming scent of burning wood. Still in that weird limbo between sleep and alertness, her nightmares are a vivid thing and she jumps to her feet ready to fight back, turning around on the spot to inspect the small cave she’s made her home, confirming there is no fire and no ghosts. Her heart slams against her ribs as her brain gradually starts functioning. Frowning, she hastily shrugs her coat on and stomps outside searching for the source of the smell.

Noah is there, crouching by a hearty fire. He has a blackened wire mesh over the fire propped on small piled rock columns on the corners, two fish cut open and degutted over it. The pink meat is sprinkled with herbs. The mouth-watering scent is enough to garnish Clarke’s enthusiasm.

“Morning,” he says, his tone congenial. “Trout?”

It’s the best meal she’s had in her life – the dishes consumed in Mount Weather don’t count. Every memory associated to that place leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

She thanks him, assures him he didn’t have to go through such trouble. While they wait for it to cook Clarke examines his leg, pleased to find that the stitches held and there’s no trace of infection. She removes the stitches, advising him to take it easy for another week still, and promptly determines he’ll make a full recovery.

Noah laughs at her when she burns her tongue in her haste to taste the succulent meal. The flavors overload her taste buds and Clarke licks her fingers thoroughly to make sure not one bit goes to waste.

They don’t talk about anything of significance. Clarke figures starting a conversation with ‘so did you leave a wife and two kids back in the Ark before you attempted suicide-by-Earth’ is a tad confrontational, and doesn’t really know how to casually steer the conversation in that direction either.

But he does tell her in detail about a healer who used fish scales to treat skin conditions. Clarke listens attentively, offering that scales are rich in collagen, and tries to memorize everything Noah remembers about the healer’s formula.

It’s educational at least.

In the coming weeks she sees him often. With his leg still recovering the task of checking his snares and setting new ones is too laborious, so Clarke helps him out and then meets with the day’s catch. Noah grumbled about it at first but learned to stop complaining and accepted her help graciously when he realized Clarke would do it regardless. He teaches her how to set her own snares, and also gives her part of his catch in thanks.

She sees him with his face close shaved on one occasion. From a distance, she confuses him from Bellamy and her heart skips a beat. She almost drops everything and runs to his arms before she realizes her mistake.

Clarke begins to crave the comfort of his company, the distraction of his stories and the knowledge of the land he’s accumulated over the years. Helping him is also strenuous work and most nights she just collapses in her cave and falls asleep before she can realize she didn’t think about the decisions she regrets, and those she would do again in heartbeat, in the entire day.

But it’s still in the back of mind. It’s just that, she doesn’t spend every waking hour torturing herself, going over it. And after a while, it’s easier to go back to it, to think about it, and search within for the answers she couldn’t find before.

And find herself, too. Or maybe the version of herself she is now, and find out if she can live with who she is and what she’s done.

Clarke figured she would have more trouble sleeping, that she’d be vulnerable and relive the traumatic events of her recent past. It’s not like she doesn’t have nightmares, she gets them occasionally, but they’re not – it’s not that bad to be honest. She thinks it’s maybe because she’s never actively trying not to think about what she did, that she’s trying to work it out when she’s awake, so it doesn’t really bother her when she’s unconscious.

All the things she’s done and the people she’s killed, well they are tangible things that have happened. She has lived through them and she’s living _with_ them, more or less.

So she can sleep. She only punishes herself when she’s awake.

Talking about punishment, she doesn’t prepare much for winter, unlike Noah who loves to comment on it and her rapidly dropping weight. She lives hand to mouth more or less and actively avoids making plans for winter. It’s stupid, but. Noah makes it a point to encourage her to be ready and comment how she’ll be in trouble if she doesn’t take precautions for winter at least twice whenever he’s around her, which is often.

Her home, if it can even be called that, is as ill prepared for the coming winter as well. The dropping temperatures and her inadequate clothes have left a permanent chill in her bones Clarke can’t shake off no matter how big a fire she stirs in her cave at night. Some nights she doesn’t even bother. During the days she manages to keep herself moving to maintain the cold at bay and the weather has been helping but that’s sure to end as the days grow shorter and the nights colder and longer. Noah shows up one day with the foreboding warning that the first snow is almost upon them, then promptly drops an armful of curated rabbit pelts and shows her how to fashion herself a blanket.

Not two days later the storm hits them in full force. Clarke misjudged the seriousness of the blizzard, thinking she could very well find her way to the creek and back to get some more water, but the strengths of the wind nearly send her flying and the snow blowing in her face keeps her blind and disoriented. In a matter of seconds she’s freezing. She would’ve died out there if Noah hadn’t chanced upon her and dragged her to her cave.

“You call this shelter?” Noah asks, slowly turning in circles and inspecting every corner of her cave with a cynical frown.

“It’s dry,” Clarke replies curtly laboring to build a small fire, shaking badly from her near death experience.

“Barely,” he snorts under his breath, cautiously poking at the roots hanging from the cave’s ceiling. “Well, if you have as little provisions as I suspect you have, at least we can survive on these,” he completely ignores Clarke’s glare and scratches the growing stubble beard under his jaw. “Provided you have some water stored, that is.”

Clarke’s loud sigh bounces off the walls.

“We’ll eat snow off the entrance then,” Noah decides with a curt nod. His eyes shift in all directions, taking in every detail of Clarke’s shabby living conditions. He goes to the entrance, as far as the rocks and wall of snow protecting them from the blizzard outside. It doesn’t hold his attention for more than a minute and then he’s back at studying the roof and poking his nose around Clarke’s meager possessions, taking stock. “Say, that’s not all the wood you have here is it?” he nods at the small pile of logs.

“Noah,” Clarke snaps, not bothering to hide her exasperation.

“Sorry. Not crazy about small enclosed spaces that’s it.”

Clarke shakes her head. “I thought you said you lived in a bunker,” she says, finding it ironic that someone who spent half his life trapped in a giant spaceship and then reportedly lived underground for two decades would be claustrophobic.

“I don’t have a problem when I know I can get out any time I want,” he explains readily. Clarke accepts his reasoning without argument, bending back over the fire. “I also have enough provisions should I get unexpectedly snowed in but hey that’s just crazy old me, wanting to stay alive and all.”

Clarke half-sighs, half-groans. She innocently thought he was done talking but _no_. At least the gush of air that passed her lips accomplished what she’s been trying to do for the past fifteen minutes. She smiles in glee and feeds dried grass and small twigs to the small flame her efforts created.

“You’re welcome to brave the blizzard,” she offers caustically, knowing it would be suicide to do so.

He gives her a hard look. “Hey. I left my bunker and walked a mile in this hell of a snow storm just to check up on you missy.”

The rebuke finds its intended target and Clarke bites the inside of her cheek, suddenly feeling guilty for her short supply of patience. “I don’t think I thanked you for that,” she offers sheepishly. 

He bats the thanks away with a flick of his hand. “Thank me for the smoked meat I brought with me. It’s gonna keep us alive,” he says gruffly.

Noah lowers himself to the ground and sits cross-legged across Clarke with the rapidly growing fire between them. He removes a leather bag the size of his fist and a long plastic blue tube with a yellow cap from his satchel. Clarke eyes it curiously as she busies herself preparing some mint tea. The colors are faded and she can only wonder what it was originally created for storing before the cataclysm. He uncaps it and offers the contents to her.

They eat their fare of nuts, strips of smoked meat and mint tea in comfortable silence. Noah offers Clarke a second helping of meat, assuring her there’s more than enough to last them a couple of days, and she takes it gratefully, if a little shyly. She’s gotten used to the perpetually gnawing feeling of her empty stomach, which it’s only satiated when Noah is around and makes sure she consumes extra servings with hawk-like determination.

She grows tired of the silence though, and soon they strike up a conversation. Noah tells her he didn’t land in this region originally, but on the west coast, south of the dead zone. Over the years he traveled across the land, the amount of time he remained on each place he visited directly proportional to the level of grounder aggressiveness he encountered. He took permanent residence in this territory about a decade ago by his estimation, after he found an untouched bunker that could easily accommodate his needs. The proximity to the Mountain Men dissuaded the grounders from approaching him. Staying under Mount Weather’s radar became paramount to his survival however, but they rarely suffered perimeter breaches on this side of the mountain so their focus and efforts were generally concentrated elsewhere.

He regales her with stories of the grounders he’s met, skills he was taught from them, what he was forced to learn on his own. For the most part Noah has kept to himself over the years, never joining a tribe or clan. _Splita_ they call him. Outsider. No one knows he comes from space. All the grounders he’s met assume that he was charged with a crime and exiled from his own clan or willingly abandoned his people. Grounders are a distrustful lot, and the lack of clan or familial tattoos inked on his skin is another point against him. He keeps a steady trade with some of the more peaceful clans, but most of them refuse, especially in this region.

“Have you ever killed anyone?”

She doesn’t know where the question came from, but once it’s past her lips she can’t take it back. Noah is clearly surprised by it, staring at Clarke with his mouth open in a wordless sentence. She shrugs, telling herself it’s merely curiosity. She knows only what Noah has told her, figuring out his character by the way he’s treated her. She has spun a hundred different versions of him in her mind going with what she’s seen of him, the picture changing with every new piece of information she discovers about him. Her loneliness feeds her interest but it’s more than that. She can’t help but see Bellamy in him the more she gets to know him, going beyond the incredible physical resemblance. Noah is like a familiar face, a piece of home right there with her, and she feels closer to Bellamy the more she knows this man.

She tells himself she owes it to him, if Noah is indeed his father as she suspects, to learn absolutely everything.

“Never,” Noah confesses after a long moment of silence. “Came close to a handful of times though.”

“What happened?”

Noah shrugs. “Couldn’t bring myself to do it. The first time was right after I landed,” he frowns eyes lost in the dancing flames. “Crashing down on that old shuttle wasn’t exactly inconspicuous. Grounders came to see what was going on and… I barely made it out.” He shrugs again, shaking himself from the brief memory trip. “What about you? You’re a bit of a legend, _wanheda_.”

The bastardized language grates her ears, bringing forth only too many memories she’d like nothing more than forget. “I earned that, I guess,” she whispers.

“You don’t sound too proud of it,” Noah points out softly.

“I’m not.”

He hums, in understanding she thinks. Enough time passes in silence that she thinks he doesn’t have anything more to say on that particular subject, for which Clarke is thankful. She doesn’t want to talk about Mount Weather or TonDC or the dropship siege that ended in fire, but she knows he’s not completely ignorant of the things she’s done. Surely he has questions.

“They would’ve killed you all,” his voice is soft but it startles Clarke, regardless. She finds his gaze over the flickering light of the fire and his eyes are hard. “Don’t you doubt it for a second. Whatever you did to them I can guarantee it pales in contrast to what they would’ve done to you. They would’ve tortured you for days before they killed you, all of you, and called it justice. You did what you had to do.”

She doesn’t know if he means the Grounders or the Mountain Men. Same difference, probably.

A tickling sensation on her cheek startles her. She bats it away thinking it’s a bug but finds wetness there instead. Tear. Actual tears. She hasn’t cried since… well since she kissed Bellamy goodbye and walked away. Clarke tries to discreetly wipe her tears with her sleeve but fails miserably. Noah politely looks away, affording her a little privacy to get herself back together.

“Some of them were innocent,” she adds, her voice thick with grief. “There were kids inside that mountain.”

The corners of his lips draw down, and his tongue peeks out to wet his parched lips. “There were kids on your side too,” he says gruffly, convincingly. “You’re a kid.”

Clarke stifles a sob and draws her legs up, hugging them to her chest. She hides her face, burying it on her knees, breathing harshly in an effort to get herself under control. “They needed our bone marrow,” she whispers. “They’d been bleeding grounders for years to stay alive but it wasn’t enough. With our marrows they could metabolize radiation and – and come outside.”

Noah inhales sharply through his nose. The tight line of his lips tells her he’s accurately considering the grave ramifications of that possibility. The Mountain Men regarded any and all grounders as little more than animals, doubtlessly they wouldn’t have stopped until obliterating every one of them in an effort to regain the land.

“That’s what they were doing when I – when we –,” she swallows. The words are hard to come out, her throat and tongue heavy with grief. “They were drilling into my mom’s leg and I – I didn’t have a choice. I had to stop them. I killed them all, I – ”

“You _saved_ them,” Noah stresses the words with purpose, holding her gaze. There’s no hint of judgment in his dark eyes. “You saved your people. _That’s_ what you did.”

Incredibly, the cold fist of guilt around her heart eases a bit and for the first time in she doesn’t know how long, her heartbeat feels strong and steady and like a flood of hope, untainted blood pumps into her veins bringing feeling back and eradicating the numbness within her. She holds on to the belief that what she did was horrible, but ultimately right, and like a lifeline she’ll let it reel her back to the surface of the pool of sorrow that seems to have swallowed her whole.

“Do you miss anyone?”

Clarke smiles, thankful for the change of subject. _Only my mom. And all my friends. And Bellamy._

“Yeah,” she closes her eyes for a moment and sighs. “But leaving, it was for the best. After what I did, I just… I couldn’t look at my friends. I know what it’s like being on that end, someone telling you they did this terrible, unspeakable thing for you,” pressure builds back again in Clarke’s throat, nearly choking her. She tries to swallow it down but it remains, like the picture clear memory of Finn stepping closer to her still holding his gun and smiling at her, chanting _I found you._

“You don’t think they would understand?” Noah wonders gently.

“I committed genocide for them. I don’t deserve their understanding or their forgiveness,” Clarke states harshly, not knowing who she’s trying to convince more.

“I don’t think…” Clarke lifts her head to look at him. Noah clears his throat, struggling to find the right words. “I don’t think you get to decide if you deserve their forgiveness. It’s theirs to give.”

 _If you need forgiveness, I’ll give it to you._ The words haven’t been far from her mind since she left, but now they seem to sound anew and perch in a special spot of her heart.

“Anyways,” Clarke says, her voice only breaking slightly. “I know my mom and my friends are fine. It makes this whole missing them with all my heart business easier,” her attempt at joking sounds lame even to her ears but Noah indulges her with a smile.

“You know that huh? You a psychic or something?”

Clarke laughs lowly, rejoiced with the feeling. He joins her with a smile.

“I asked – ” she clamps her lips just short off mentioning Bellamy’s name and gives him a tight smile. “I asked a friend of mine to look after them for me. I know he wouldn’t let anything happen to them.”

 “Friend huh?” Noah smirks cheekily. “This be a _boy_ friend by any chance?” he asks knowingly waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

“No!” Clarke crooks out, feeling heat bloom in her cheeks.

“M’not buying that,” he shakes his head, his lips pursed and his eyes shining. “Why am I only just hearing about this friend of yours?”

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Clarke says, sitting up straighter and narrowing her eyes. “You seemed to have heard of me from the grounders, how come you don’t know anything about him?”

Noah frowns, taken back by her abrupt hostility. He shrugs. “I did hear some about a particular skayon gona. A Sky warrior,” he translates helpfully even though Clarke is familiar enough with the language to have figured it out on her own. “But not much. Between you and me, grounders don’t put much stock on male figures of authority so it isn’t surprising. You I heard all about. Him,” he rakes his teeth over his lower lip, peeling the chapped skin off. “All I know is he don’t die easy.”

“Understatement of the century,” Clarke says heatedly, upset on Bellamy’s behalf that the grounders would write him off so casually.

Noah smirks, his tongue peeking out to wet his lips. “You seem to have some strong opinions about this. Come on, tell me all about your mysterious friend.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she sputters.

“Then why do you keep avoiding the subject?”

“Because it’s private and I don’t know you well enough,” Clarke nods, satisfied with herself for telling him essentially the truth without revealing anything of substance. As nice as Noah seems to be, it’s not within her right to mention Bellamy, not until she’s sure it’s the right thing.

“Right,” he drawls obnoxiously. “What about his name? Can you tell me that or is that strictly need-to-know as well?” Clarke starts shaking her head before he even finishes the sentence. “Come on,” he begs, not prettily. “Be a pal, it’s gonna get real dull in here if we don’t keep up a steady conversation. I wasn’t kidding when I said I’m not crazy about being locked up. If I don’t have anything to distract me I’m going stir crazy. Trust me, it ain’t pretty.”

“So I’m supposed to entertain you?”

“Exactly. Now, your boyfriend’s name is…?”

“I’m not going to tell y– He’s not my boyfriend!” Clarke cries out. She finds a loose rock on the ground, no bigger than her thumb, and flings it at Noah. Her aim was true and would’ve hit him square in the forehead if he hadn’t easily evaded it. He even had the gall to laugh at her. Clarke shakes her head at him. She realizes with no little amount of surprise that her lips are curled on a smile, and have been for some time now. “You can call him B,” she concedes finally.

“B,” he repeats, testing the sound. “B. Okay, I can work with this. How many names can there be that start with that letter? I’ll figure it out in no time.”

“If you do, what makes you think I’ll tell you if you get it right?”

“I will know,” Noah smiles arrogantly.

He spends long minutes trying to guess Bellamy’s name without luck. Bill, Bob and Ben were suggested, naturally, and, to Clarke unending amusement, so were Bartholomew, Beverly and Balthazar. He doesn’t bring up Bellamy as a possibility as Clarke was sure he would but she has a feeling that’s a deliberate decision on his part. He grows tired eventually, determining he’s probably named after a surname as was customary on the Ark, but he’ll figure it out sooner or later, he promises.

Somehow, the conversation turns to the subject of the hundred and the particulars of their landing. The transition happens so smoothly Clarke doesn’t even realize it until she’s talking about how hard it was to keep a hundred teenage delinquents alive. Noah goads her some more when she confesses that she couldn’t have done it if ‘her friend’ hadn’t been with her every step of the way, how in truth he was the one more in touch with the kids’ needs. She became a practical leader by his side, both of them reaching a compromise and utilizing one another’s strengths. She doesn’t think she’s terribly risking Bellamy’s identity by telling Noah all of this, and it feels incredibly good to confide in someone just how deep the trust she places on Bellamy is, and not having that bond and her implicit belief in him mocked or questioned.

He confesses he scouted camp Jaha and the dropship before that, just to get an idea of their numbers. He mentions he didn’t see her that first time at the dropship but that the camp was complete chaos and everyone seemed to be high, so he wrote them off as harmless and stayed away. Figures that he would pick the one day she and Bellamy were gone on a day trip to spy on them. He didn’t catch a glimpse of Bellamy at Camp Jaha either apparently, though to be fair he was in lock up or gone from camp looking for her for a long period of time. It is convenient Clarke thinks, and it makes perfect sense. But then she worries that Noah _did_ see him and is purposefully staying away from his son which. She doesn’t want to think about that possibility right now.

Noah smoothly veers the conversation in another direction then and asks her how many stations made it to the ground.

“Not many,” she finally says, studying his reactions. His guard his closed off, his expression unreadable. But his eyes tell another story. “Just two with survivors that I know of, Alpha and Mecha.”

“What about Factory station?” he tries to play it nonchalant, but Clarke can see the tension around his mouth and a mix of anxiety and excitement pooling in his dark, dark eyes.

“I’m sorry. Factory didn’t withstand the landing. It crashed against the side of a mountain. There was only one survivor, a girl. Mel.”

Noah’s face crumbles for a second and the hope fades from his eyes revealing a haunted look. It goes away as soon as it comes and if Clarke hadn’t been paying close attention to him she would have probably missed it.

“Why do you ask?” she presses on.

He claps his eyes on her for a second, the rapidly looks away.

“No reason, I just – ” he sighs, the sound haunting and chilling her to the bones. “I had a family.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it! Please leave a comment, I really want to know what you guys think of Noah ^_^


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Universe shift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone who read, kudos, bookmarked and left a comment. You are all wonderful and your support means the world to me!!
> 
> Beta'd by [Sarah](http://www.writingaloveaffair.tumblr.com), who makes nit-picking and fact-checking into an art form! I could not do this without you, and that's the absolute truth.

The following day Noah pokes his head outside and determines it’s safe to go out. The sight around them leaves her speechless. Everything is blanketed by 25cm of snow in Noah’s estimation. As first snows go, he claims this one to be a bad one, heralding a harsh winter. Clarke defers to his expert opinion without arguing. He has certainly more experience than her.

The sky above them is clear with the sun’s wan light casting down on them, the reflection bouncing on the snow proving blinding. Her feet sink in the snow leaving deep footprints and enveloping her up to her ankles in icy caskets. Clarke had been cold inside the cave, stoking the fire relentlessly and sticking close to it, but this out here? This is true cold. Her feet and fingers are tingling against the biting chill and it won’t be long before they go numb. It feels like her cheeks are being slapped by the cold and her lips, which had been already chapped, itch and feel like they’re one smile away from cracking. Her hair is growing increasingly wet as the curly locks catch stray falling snowflakes.

Just when the gravity of the situation really dawns on her and she realizes there’s no way in hell she’s going to survive on her own, and even begins to entertain the thought of going back to camp Jaha to avoid dying of exposure, a miracle happens. Noah confesses that with his bum leg he is sure to have a bitch of a hard time. He points out, a bit too callously in Clarke’s opinion, that being Clarke’s first winter on the ground and considering she’s clueless about how to survive in such harsh conditions, they should stick close together and help each other out.

Clarke thinks about it for all of three seconds before she agrees. In addition to the fact that the man has survived twenty winters so he ought to know what he’s doing, she’s almost completely sure Noah is Bellamy’s dad – confirmation pending – and she’d never forgive herself if something happened to him and she could’ve helped it.

(The company’s not half bad either. She left camp to be alone, but it does get tiresome. She feels more at peace with herself in his company, but she’s not prepared to examine why.)

He bundles her in her rabbit pelt blanket, the one he helped her make when they first started spending time together, before they leave her cave for good.

He’s been living in an old bunker for the better part of the last ten years, and it’s pretty comfortable. The people who built it must’ve spent an obscene amount of money if the accommodations are anything to go by. The whole place is very well insulated and has a ventilation system which, if activated, filters out the radiation in the air in a complex way that reminds Clarke of Mount Weather. Noah explains that he has never activated it, preferring to save the energy it requires. There are light fixtures and lamps aplenty but they remain off, the only illumination coming from the multitude of handmade candles Noah lights as he shows her around. There is a small but fully operational kitchen and bathroom complete with a propane powered shower with actual hot water and a gas stove. Again, Noah doesn’t use them unless he absolutely has to. Of the many luxuries the bunker offers, he only uses the propane freezer and that only during the summer months to stock up for winter. During the winter months, he stores it in an underground shelter packed with snow

The bunker is more spacious than the one Finn found, with a bedroom separated from the main room which houses the living area, kitchenette and dining area, each area outfitted by inviting furniture. Off the kitchen there’s a pantry that Noah tells her was originally fully stocked, but most of the food was spoiled. Beyond that there’s the engine room storing rows upon rows of large propane cylinders, the portable generator and the computer controlling the ventilation system. He also does most of his tanning there, so the process won’t stink up the whole bunker.

The people who originally built it apparently planned to spend the nuclear apocalypse comfortably. Couches and plush reading chairs abound, there’s artwork on the walls and several rugs and throw pillows making the entire place look like somewhere people would’ve actually enjoyed living instead of a last resource plan in case the whole world went up in smoke. Beside the extensive book collection there are several board games, including a crystal chess set Noah informs her he’s been playing against himself for years.

(“It’s no use though,” he says grimly, glaring at the chess set like it personally offended him. “I always cheat.”)

Noah tells her there was also a complete entertainment system and a DVD collection but since he has no use for it and he can’t trade it for something of value to him he stored it in the engine room where it’s been gathering dust for a decade. A worktable occupies that space now, holding a chaotic assortment of chisels, clamps, saws, a jumble of measuring tape, and a snarl of corkscrewed wires. In baffling juxtaposition, a pegboard is mounted on the wall, all the tools neatly organized by their size and grouped by their similarity.

Splinters cover the floor around the worktable, presumably from the freshly cut arrow shafts piled at the end of the table. The counter by the stove is also currently occupied by a man-made tripod with an empty pot over it and several rows of pointy arrowheads.

Across the middle of what can be considered the living room there is a clothesline with shirts, socks and freshly tanned pelts hanging from it. Deer hides and stitched up rabbit pelt blankets are casually thrown over the couches and a particularly rich bear rug covers the concrete floor. Clarke kicked off her sodden boots and socks the minute they arrived and spent a good ten minutes massaging feeling back to numb feet. She’s very glad for that right now, as it allows her to properly appreciate the luxurious feeling of the lush fur as she paces over the thick rug.

Among the cheap, pre-apocalyptic artwork, weapons decorate the walls, each designated space drawn on them. She counts two bows, an impressive axe and the blank spots where a machete and two blades are supposed to take place. Noah pads to the far wall and meticulously hangs the blades in their place, but the machete-shaped spot remains empty.

The place was intact when Noah found it, so no one was fortunate enough to take shelter in it. The knowledge fills Clarke with grief, and she offers a prayer for the people who built this place but didn’t make it to safety.

“It’s amazing,” Clarke says, fascinated, after she’s inspected every inch of the bunker, flitting from one place to the other observing all the decorative pieces on the walls and little knick knacks Noah’s collected through the years.

“I didn’t strip it bare like the other bunkers I lived in,” Noah comments, sitting on a plush off-red couch and taking off his boots with a groan.

“What did you do with the stuff after you stripped the bunkers?” Clarke asks without looking at him, greedily inspecting the rows and rows of books organized in alphabetical order on the built-in bookcase lining the half wall that separates the living area from the dinning room.

“I traded them.”

“For what? Food?”

“Skills. I was too busy picking up shifts at the factory to pay attention at Earth Skills,” he smirks. “And even if I had, I doubt tanning or candle making would’ve made it into the curricula.”

Clarke hums, admitting to herself it was a very smart choice on his part. She eases out a book from the case. “Can I borrow this one?”

“Help yourself,” Noah says with a wide hand gesture indicating the whole room. “I’ve been rationing the propane but whoever built this place preferred to err on the side of caution and there’s enough to go another decade or so, so you can take a hot shower if you like.”

Clarke nearly giggles with excitement.

“I’ll get you a towel.”

He comes back a few moments later with clean towels and carrying a sizeable orange plastic box. He deposits it on the couch and snaps the lid open, revealing folded piles of clothes.

“There’s another box like this in storage full with girl clothes,” he informs her. “Everything still has the tags on as far as I can tell so it was never used. No winter gear though, sorry. But I have enough spare pelts, we’ll make you some so you can go outside.”

She thanks him profusely but he won’t hear a word of it, assuring her she’ll repay him by helping him stay alive. He goes to turn on the heater for the shower while Clarke takes her time to look through the clothes. She’s never seen clothes so new, not when President Wallace offered her some at Mount Weather and certainly not on the Ark. Clarke ends up selecting a dark pair of leggings, a white halter top and a long sleeved gray shirt. She discovers underwear on the box as well and nearly weeps with joy. 

The clothes fit, which is almost as satisfying as the hot shower. They’re a little big on her but Clarke has lost a lot of weight lately, which became blatantly obvious while she was showering. She hasn’t been completely naked in a while, and she certainly can’t remember when she last had the luxury of taking her time washing. The bumps of her ribs stick out and even her breasts feel smaller. She makes a vow under the hot spray to take better care of herself, and washes her hair with old, pre-apocalyptic shampoo. 

They take the day off. Noah determines the snow is too thick for them to transit safely and that they need to rest and recover from spending so much time cooped up on that freezing cave before they can venture outside. So Clarke enjoys her hot shower, changes into the cleanest, softest outfit she has ever worn and curls up on the couch to read before they eat an early dinner and they call it a night. Noah graciously offers her his bed, but Clarke declines, assuring him she’ll be quite comfortable on the couch.

She falls asleep warm and content for the first time in ages. Nightmares don’t bother her, either.

* * *

The stillness of winter is overwhelming. The woods are practically desolate, the tree limbs bare and brittle. The ground is perpetually covered in a thick coat of snow and the river and streams are iced over. Under Noah’s expert tutelage Clarke learns the particulars of still-hunting, discovering she’s been walking all wrong all along. He teaches her to take velvety steps, urging her to go slow, and then slower still and pay close attention to her surroundings. Her muscles protested at first, the minute movements seeming ineffectual yet taking all too much effort at the same time. But with some practice under her belt and Noah’s persistent, quiet support, Clarke picks up the skill.

He teaches her to train her senses to detect the slightest movement, to control her breathing and become one with the wind and in-sync with the woods. Noah also teaches her archery, praising her aim. She’s a natural, he tells her. Clarke shoves the compliments away, insisting that she learned how to shoot a gun from the best and that those skills just translate well enough to a bow and arrow.

When she takes down her first buck after trailing it for miles with an arrow clear through its neck Noah lets out a loud hoot and throws an arm around Clarke’s shoulders, congratulating her profusely.

He then makes her do all the work, removing the skin without damaging it and then teaching her the tanning process step by step. She leaves the butchering to him but she pays close attention to what he does, studying his technique.

It’s easy to open up to him. Noah is a very good listener. She thinks it’s because he was so starved for human contact before she became a part of his life. Clarke finds herself talking about her dad often, and her mom too. Noah was quite defensive at first, making jabs about how she’s royalty when Clarke first mentioned their names.

“You’re Abby Clarke and Jake Griffin’s daughter?” he asks, a snorting laugh tailing his question. “So they actually got together. Like no one saw that one coming,” he rolls his eyes, still laughing.

Clarke is not amused. “What’s so funny?”

“They were _the_ couple. Everyone was invested in their relationship,” he jabs with a hint of resentment.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“No,” he clucks his tongue. “Try to bring up the unequal water allotment between the stations at a Section meeting, but everyone was too busy gossiping about princess Abby Clarke turning down Griffin for a star show or a movie to give a damn. I mean, as diversion tactics go it was a good one, kudos to the Council for pimping out their kids like that but. It was frustrating.”

Clarke stiffens. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. What he’s implying is insane. It’s no wonder he stole into an escape pod and crashed down to Earth if he was entertaining such paranoid delusions at that time. It wasn’t her parents’ fault if they were well-liked and she’s not going to feel ashamed for being their daughter. She was brought up in a loving home and that’s more than Noah can say for his children.

“Your dad was a decent guy though, he visited factory a lot. And I remember your mom was really beautiful, and she was kind,” Noah says softly now. 

“Thank you,” she smiles, trying and failing to tamp down the feeling of being ashamed of her petty thoughts just seconds before.

“So. How does this work from now on?” he asks seriously. “Shall I curtsy before you princess?”

Clarke punches him to wipe the smirk off his face, but she miscalculated and hit him harder than she intended so Noah slips on the icy snow and lands flat on his ass. He doesn’t stop cackling all the way down and only stops after Clarke refuses to help him get back on his feet. The joke’s on him though. His hip bruises badly and the old man can’t move for two days after that without wincing and grumbling under his breath.

One day they decide to visit the dropship. Noah is admittedly curious about it and frankly they have nothing better to do. They follow the course of the river around the mountain, sticking close to the iced shore. Clarke mentions the giant snake that attacked Octavia on the day they landed, her name slipping past her lips before she could stop herself. But to Clarke’s relief, Noah doesn’t appear to recognize his daughter’s name, listening avidly to her story. It’s possible he doesn’t even know he has a daughter. The thought saddens her and for the first time her determination to keep Bellamy and Octavia’s existence a secret wavers. Who is she to decide when Noah can be trusted with that knowledge? 

When their journey comes to an end and they cross the old gate, Clarke feels all her nightmares come back alive. Noah provided much needed distraction, she realizes, almost making her forget precisely how many lives she’s taken and how unworthy of forgiveness, even her own, she is.

He seems to notice her somber thoughts. He slaps a bright, over-excited smile on his face and pulls her along the abandoned camp, asking her questions about everything he can imagine. His excitement doesn’t last long. He kneels down to examine some animal tracks.

“Pakstoka,” he says lowly. Clarke continues to stare at him. “A wolf. _Kind of_. You don’t usually see this kind this far south,” he explains with a frown.

“Well, wolf packs are migratory creatures aren’t they? Maybe the acid fog kept them away before, but now they’re exploring this territory,” Clarke wonders, crouching beside him to examine the prints.

“Except this one is alone. See how all the tracks are the same size?” he points and Clarke nods, studying the three by four inches paw-prints. The tracks go all around the dropship as if the animal had sniffed every inch of the camp. “That’s unusual. And it’s young too,” Noah continues. “The paws in an adult pakstoka are about twice this size.”

Clarke shivers. The paw prints look pretty damn big to her. She hates to imagine an animal of that size roaming around.

They follow the trail trying to see if there’s any indication of why the lone wolf would sniff around the dropship. Noah bets smaller animals have taken residence within the hull structure of the dropship and that the wolf was hunting them. A few meters after they can see they’re wrong.

“I’ll be damned,” Noah curses under his breath, a hint of awe in his voice.

The wolf tracks side to much bigger, human ones, as if they walked side by side companionably. They go all the way to the side of the dropship and stop there before veering to the right towards the ramp.

Clarke stops dead in her spot. It’s a message for her, written in chalk on the same spot her mother had left directions to Camp Jaha for Clarke to follow. It reads _“Everyone’s fine. We miss you. B.”._

Clarke stays there for a long time, the rest of the world dimming around her as her focus centers on those words. She stares at the message for what feels like hours, tracing the bold, precise words with her eyes and lingering in the last three little words. It snowed yesterday morning yet the words are intact instead of smudged meaning Bellamy must’ve left the message in the previous afternoon or maybe even earlier today. Looking down, she can make out his much larger footprints just inches from where she is standing.

With a shaky breath, Clarke takes another step and settles her feet into the larger footprints. Her whole body shivers and it’s like the universe shifts around her. Only hours ago, Bellamy stood at that very same spot. A joy so unexpected shakes her swiftly and laughter bubbles up right from her heart. She feels his presence all around her as if he were right there by her side and the figurative closeness is not nearly as painful as it was when she said goodbye to him with her heart ripped to shreds. 

She doesn’t notice when Noah slips away giving her time to process. He is content to simply follow the trail and look around by himself but after a while he calls her inside the ship. Clarke has to drag herself away from her spot, but what she finds inside the dropship more than makes up for the necessary separation. There’s a pack for her, fully stocked with rations, a pair of thick socks, a flask of moonshine and an extra clip of ammunition for her handgun.

“Aww,” Noah coos as he lifts the clip and the socks to her face. “You never told me B was so _romantic_.”

Clarke bats him away and carefully sifts through the supplies Bellamy left her, fighting a losing battle against the grin stretching her lips and the blush spreading on her cheeks. “Be nice and I’ll share my booze with you.”

“Okay let’s taste this,” Noah excitedly rubs his hands together before digging out two aluminum cups from his bag.

Clarke pours a measure in each cup. The metallic clink fills the space around them as they toast. “Mabuhay!” Noah calls before downing his drink.

She recognizes the strange language again, one he often uses to mumble under his breath. “What language is that?” Clarke wonders, coughing through the burn in her throat.

“It’s Tagalog,” he says, licking his lips. “My mom was originally from the Philippines. She insisted I learned her people’s language, said it was our duty to preserve every piece of our heritage we could.” Clarke pours them some more. This time Noah takes his time to savor it, his eyes fogged with memories. “After the Ark’s unifying laws were in effect, formal learning of any language that wasn’t English was subtracted from the curricula, so I was grateful she took the time to share that piece of her culture with me, especially after she passed away. I did my best to pass it on to my son but –” Noah shakes his head and throws back the last of his drink. “He was too young and I didn’t have enough time I guess. I wonder if he remembered any of it before – ”

Clarke worries her lip, looking away. She takes another small sip. She can’t recall Bellamy speaking anything other than English. Maybe he was too young to remember it.

“You never talk about him,” she says carefully. “Or your wife.”

“Nothing to say,” Noah shrugs, his voice gruff. He avoids eye contact. “I’ve been gone from their life for a long time and now they’re actually gone, period.”

“You don’t know that for sure…”

His eyes clap on hers like a thunder. “You said Factory didn’t make it to the ground,” his tone, angry and accusatory, makes Clarke take a step back.

“It didn’t. But you can’t be a hundred percent sure they were there when it crashed and I did land here with a hundred teenagers – ”

He shakes his head. “He would’ve been too old to come with you. We should get going if we want to make it back before nightfall,” Noah decides, abruptly changing the subject and bolting for the entrance of the dropship.

“But Noah – ”

“Listen, I lost them a long time ago Clarke,” Noah bites out. “It’s better off this way.”

Clarke stares at the tarp hiding the entrance long after he’s gone, then finally downs the last of her drink. She locates a piece of chalk in the pack Bellamy left for her and rolls it between her fingers as she stands in front of the bare metal wall pondering with what to say to him in her message.

* * *

“You told me you didn’t deal with them!”

“I never said that.”

Clarke exhales sharply. She is attaching arrow heads to fresh cut shafts in the bunker a week later when the issue comes up. “I asked you if you traded with the Ice Nation and your precise words were _‘I don’t have a death wish’_. What was I supposed to make of that?”

“Don’t blame me if you misinterpreted.”

“NOAH.”

He gives her a hard stare. “What. Is. Your. Problem?”

“You lied to me!”

“Yeah okay,” he nods, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I’m sorry I didn’t give a virtual stranger the details of my trade arrangements with every clan under the sun. My bad.”

Clarke shakes her head, slapping the arrow in her hand to the work bench. “I don’t trust them,” she says more calmly after a moment, avoiding his gaze.

“I don’t either,” Noah assures her. “They’re mean sons of bitches.”

She gapes at him, riling herself up for another scream match. “Then why – !”

Noah holds up his hand, silently asking her to let him finish. “Look, I didn’t survive all these years without learning a thing or two. I’m on my own and they could easily take me out.”

Clarke can’t help to interrupt him. “You’re not on your own anymore,” she reminds him.

He smiles, gratefully. “Be that as it may, we’re still at a disadvantage and the only reason they haven’t set out to kill me off in the past is because a, I could procure valuable things they wanted and b, I never antagonized them. Now, I don’t seek them out to make business but if they come knocking on my door, I gotta answer if I wanna keep breathing.”

“What do they want from you?”

“Stuff, for the most part,” he shrugs. “Pre-cataclysm items in good condition are extremely valuable. There was a whole bunch of useless shit here I’ve been selling them over the years. Nia, the Az Heda, likes pretty, sparkly shit as much as she likes bathing in the blood of her enemies. I lost count of how many mirrors and jewelry I grave her.”

Clarke stiffens at the mention of the leader of the Ice People. If Lexa’s word is to be trusted, and that is a big if, the woman is ruthless and a sadist. She wants Noah nowhere near her.

“Do they want something in particular this time?”

“Doubt it,” Noah shakes his head, absently scratching his scruffy jaw. “Most likely, with the Mountain Men gone they’re snooping around to see if they can claim this territory. But the Coalition is in shambles so they could be planning to move in on the trikru.”

Clarke worries the inside of her lip. “And why do they want to speak you?”

“I’ve been living in this area for a long time and don’t have ties to any clan. My information is very valuable.”

“Valuable information that could lead to another war.” The cold fist of dread closes around Clarke’s heart. _No more war, not again._ “We have to stop them.”

“ _’We’_ aren’t gonna do a damn thing,” Noah decides with a frown, rapidly signaling from her to him with his index finger. “You are going to stay well and hidden while I go meet with them and convince them moving south ain’t all that.”

“And how are you going to do that?” Clarke insists.

“I’ll just casually mention the people who obliterated the greatest threat this land’s ever seen has taken residence at Mount Weather and restored all their deadly toys so they’d be advised not to fuck with them.”

Clarke considers his suggestion, pursing her lips. “But that’s a lie.”

Noah blinks, not missing a beat. “They’ll believe me,” he states, arrogantly. “Just to be safe I still have a fancy set of hairbrushes I’ve been saving for a rainy day. That’ll keep the Ice Queen happy,” he nods, then mumbles under his breath when he turns around to put his boots on. “I hope.”

“I’m going with you,” Clarke announces, striding to the hanger where her heavy fur and leather coat is hanging.

“Sweetheart,” Noah drawls. “Do you want me to get killed on sight? Because that’s what’s going to happen if they find out I’m in cohorts with you, _wanheda_. You and your buddy Lexa miraculously survived the bombing that killed the Ice Queen’s top advisor and war chief. Trust me when I tell you they won’t buy for a second that you were spared by divine intervention. They get a whiff of you and we’re as good as dead.”

“I can’t just stay here,” she grits out, feeling impotent.

“You’re not. I want you as far away from here as possible.”

He draws her a map. The reaper tunnels branch all the way out to this side of the mountain too and with his help showing her how to navigate them she can get to the dropship in half the time it would take otherwise. Noah tells her he only ever used them as a last resource because they were crawling with Reapers but their population has dwindled, be it because the grounders took them when they retreated from the area, or because the Sky People are rehabilitating them. He’s so desperate for her to leave he even packs a flashlight with brand new batteries he took from his closely guarded stash and several emergency light-sticks to show her the way.

Clarke argues with him but eventually he wears her down, telling her it will only be a couple of days, long enough for her to go back and forth to the dropship and check out if there’s any new messages from B. She grudgingly leaves the bunker, being extra cautious while on the tunnels. She makes it to the dropship in record time, looking over her shoulder repeatedly to make sure she hasn’t been spotted by one of her people and getting a throbbing pain in her neck to show for it.

She runs up the ramp, eager to see if there’s a new message from Bellamy. She’s excited to notice the snow has been recently cleared off the ramp, meaning he was here not long ago.

The message is the same as usual, claiming everything is fine and they miss her. There’s a tidbit in smaller handwrite indicating that Octavia says ‘hi’ that makes Clarke smile. Beneath the words there’s a neatly folded waterproof jacket, a blank spiral-bound drawing pad and a small box of crayons. The items very clearly come from Mount Weather.

It shouldn’t come as a shock. It makes sense that they would take what supplies they can from Mount Weather given that no one is using them anymore. They fought so hard to make it out alive it’d be stupid and downright criminal to let all those resources go to waste when they can very well mean they make it through the harsh winter alive. She doesn’t have to like it, and she doesn’t have to wear the coat or use the notepad, but she’s not allowed to judge her friends for doing so willingly.

The thought of Bellamy going back there alone, without her, doesn’t sit well with Clarke. She can’t imagine what it must’ve been for him going back there, and she doesn’t doubt he did. The dead would’ve needed burying too and she knows Bellamy would’ve been the first to volunteer for the gruesome job, if not the one to suggest it on the first place. Mount Weather isn’t only the place they killed all those people, it’s also where he was tortured. And Clarke left him all alone to deal with the consequences of their actions. For the first time since she left she wonders if her need for solitude and space could be hurting him more than helping her.

Slowly, carefully, she packs the items in her bag. She feels wrong just touching them. She may never use them but Bellamy left them for her and she’d never be so cruel and leave them there, unwanted, for him to find later.

Clarke spends the night in the dropship, huddled in the sleeping bag Noah packed for her against the wall where Bellamy’s message remains legible. When morning comes she uses chalk to leave him a message thanking him for coat and the art supplies and warning him to secure their perimeter north of Mount Weather and look out for the Ice Nation.

She then returns to the cover of the woods, the bitterly cold wind bringing color to her cheeks.

She wanders aimlessly for a while, before she realizes she’s circling Camp Jaha. It’s curiosity that draws her, not a real desire to go back although there’s an element of longing. They are her people, as she is theirs. She left in shame, to sew back together the frayed pieces of herself, but Clarke recognizes she can never heal properly without confronting the very people she wanted to protect, and for whom she turned her back on everything she always thought was good and right.

She’s not quite ready to face them, not yet, but maybe seeing them from afar will take the bluster off the inevitable reunion, allowing her a chance to reconcile herself with the lines on their faces and the harshness in their eyes. 

Clarke tells herself it’ll only be a moment— she’ll stay hidden by the trees and make a quick sweep of the camp, assure herself of everyone’s well-being and then leave.

She was not expecting to find it deserted.

It’s neat and orderly. Alpha station is somber and still with its doors bolted shut. The improvised outbuildings and tents have been taken down and no trace of them remains. Snow covers the whole expanse of land before her, undisturbed. 

Like a ghost town, Camp Jaha welcomes Clarke back home. There’s no one around to witness her tears.

The decay and abandonment doesn’t fit with Bellamy’s regular messages on the dropship. They didn’t leave the territory, she knows this. They wouldn’t have lasted a week against the elements if they’d dared to try.

Noah’s voice rings in her ears. _“I’ll just casually mention the people who obliterated the greatest threat this land’s ever seen has taken residence at Mount Weather and restored all their deadly toys.”_

He wasn’t bluffing.

He lied to her. He knew.

What else has he been lying about?

Chafing her skin as she angrily wipes her tears off her stinging cheeks, Clarke turns her back on the deserted camp and makes her way back to the bunker. Her legs tirelessly eat the distance and her blood boils with the drum of hurt and betrayal and anger.

She can _never_ go home. There’s no home to go back to. Just people she loves living in a graveyard she would profane with her mere presence, and a man who is still a stranger she can’t trust anymore.

* * *

Stark red drops in the snow and blood smeared on the outside of the bunker’s access hatch  give Clarke her first clue that Noah’s meeting with the Ice People didn’t go well.

The second is him, passed out in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs.

Clarke drops to her knees next to him and stirs him. “M’fine,” he grumbles holding his side and trying to sit up.

“You’re bleeding. Let me see.”

There’s a gaping wound curling around his side from his waist to his hip. The angle is odd but the edges are precise – this was done with some kind of sharp blade, but not one she’s familiar with. He’s bleeding profusely. She can’t move him to the bedroom, he would bleed out. She needs to stabilize him and control the bleeding before she can start to fix the internal damage.

It’s her messiest work so far and yes, she is counting surgery in the middle of a hurricane and with the enemy breathing down her neck. Noah is in bad shape and if Clarke had been longer in getting to him of if the blade had gone just a little deeper he would be dead. It takes hours and a lot of perseverance before Clarke can be even a little bit optimistic that he’s going to make it.

Moving him proves difficult. It takes hours. Fortunately Noah passed out just before she started patching him up and remained unconscious until Clarke finally settled him comfortably over the thick bear rug in the living room.

“I told you it was dangerous.”

Noah shakes his head disoriented. “It wasn’t – saved my life. He saved me,” he mumbles.

“Who saved you?” Clarke presses.

“The az…”

Clarke frowns. He’s not making any sense. “No, they attacked you.” She touches his forehead, finding him too warm.

“No, no.” Noah tenses and stares at her intently. He grabs her forearm and pulls her closer. “It was the trikru who attacked us.”  

That’s the last coherent sentence she gets from him. A fever takes hold and nothing Clarke does manages to keep it down for long. She uses snow to apply cold compresses and that helps, but only temporarily. The highly concentrated seaweed tea Clarke brews doesn’t seem able to improve his condition either. A couple of days after he sustained his injuries an abscess develops on his wound as his body rejects the stitches one by one. The flesh around it is red, inflamed and fluctuant to the touch, so Clarke re-opens the wound, does her best to drain it and clean it before sewing it back together.

But the infection is stubborn and refuses to be extinguished. He needs antibiotics, real medicine. And Clarke only knows one place to get it.

There’s no care package from Bellamy waiting for her at the dropship. He probably hasn’t had time to come back since Clarke was last here. It seems like a lifetime when it’s only been a few days. Terrible, sleep-deprived days where she’s been scared out of her mind she’s going to lose Noah, but still just days.

She leaves another message for Bellamy, right under the one she last wrote, detailing the medicine she needs and stressing on the urgency. She gives it a day and a half before she goes back to the dropship and during that time Noah’s condition deteriorates. The fever has consumed a lot of his weight and feeding him is especially difficult considering he’s unconscious. Red, spidery-web lines decorate the sides of his injury, indicating the early stages of blood poisoning.

Fresh tracks greet her when she returns to the dropship. Clarke runs the distance to the ramp, but a low growl stops her from going up.

She sees its eyes before she has a chance to take it all in. Big and yellow they stare right at her in open challenge. Standing guard at the foot of the ramp, the lone grey wolf growls warningly. Noah had been sure it was just a pup but Clarke can’t believe an animal the size of the beast before her is anything but fully grown. Its fur is dense and fluffy around its neck and back, with shorter and seemingly coarser underfur. Its mottled gray coat gleams like steel in the pale snow.

It stands in alert, ears and muzzle pointed towards her, its target. Clarke’s terror spikes as its growling increases, showing her its vicious fangs.

“Atlas. _Down._ ”

The wolf whines low in its throat and immediately moves away, plopping down to the side of the ramp and resting its head on its front legs.

Clarke jerks her eyes towards the voice, nearly slipping on the icy snow with the shock of it. Bellamy is waiting for her at the top of the ramp. Clarke laughs with unbridled joy when she sees him, all thoughts of the wolf expelled from her mind.

This time when she hugs him she doesn’t take him by surprise. Bellamy not only meets her halfway, but traps her in a powerful embrace and quite literally sweeps her off her feet, lifting her into the air as she clings to him like a lifeline and dangling above the metal floor of the ramp.

“Took you long enough,” he says roughly, his voice laden with emotion and his face buried in her hair.

Clarke swallows thickly, burrowing closer. His arms around her feel like coming home. It’s the safest and happiest she’s felt in ages. ~~~~It doesn’t last long.

He pulls her into the dropship. Bellamy’s examination of her knows neither rhyme nor reason. It’s a mess of patting her back and arms looking for injuries while simultaneously keeping her within his embrace; combing her hair back from her face, dropping a kiss on her forehead and murmuring words in her ear. “Are you okay?” he asks repeatedly, and “Where does it hurt?”

“I’m fine.” Clarke has to repeat the words three times before they register to him.

“But, the medicine – ”

With a sinking heart, Clarke realizes he thinks she required the medicine for herself. He thought she was hurt and the first thing he did was make sure was okay. Disappointing him could never be easy, but it’ll be particularly difficult given how close they are standing, him still hugging her and her hands pressed to his chest absently caressing him. “It’s not for me.”

Bellamy’s eyes bore into hers, searching for something, but she has no answers to offer him. His face closes off gradually and he nods understandingly after a moment. He drops his arms and he puts a step of distance between them. Clarke can practically see his walls go up on par with his steeling spine.

The changes in him are striking. It’s a silly thing to care about, but she mourns the loss of his unruly curls. His new close cropped hairstyle suits him nicely, bringing out the hard, angular planes of his face, but there was something endearing and charming about his wild mop. His body is probably what has changed the most since she last saw him. It could be the layers of clothing to ward off the cold but he looks bigger than the last time she saw him and Clarke felt nothing but firm muscle when she held him. His body vibrates with anxious energy even though he holds himself so still, his back so straight she fears he’ll snap it.

But his eyes, they’re the worst. Clarke can see the sleepless nights in them, the strain, the bone-deep exhaustion. The shadows in his eyes make the once rich chocolate depths look dull and lifeless, with ghosts mockingly dancing behind them. 

“Then who is it for?”

She could tell him. That his father, who he thinks is dead, isn’t really, and that she’s been hanging out with him for the past three months. Three months, and Clarke still has no idea why Noah ended up in Earth, what drove him to steal an escape pod and head for the ground hoping to die. Three months where she’s been a coward, too afraid to open that can of worms and hate what comes out.

Chances are that Bellamy either thinks his father was floated for a crime, told so by his mother to protect him from the ugly truth; or knows he tried to kill himself and left his family behind to fend for themselves. If that’s the case, Bellamy would have every right to harbor resentment towards his father.

And a lot of what Noah has told her doesn’t make sense. He somehow knew about her people moving to Mount Weather and lied to her about it, just as he omitted the truth about his dealings with the Ice Nation. He claims to have scouted the dropship camp and Camp Jaha and to have heard of her from grounders. He knows so much, but doesn’t know Bellamy is alive.

It’s not a stretch of the imagination for her to think he has been lying to her about that too, that he’s choosing for some reason to stay away from his son.

She likes Noah and she cares about him, but Bellamy is her favorite person in the world. She’ll protect him from this truth whatever the cost.

“I can’t tell you that.” She answers finally.

He stares at her for a moment, like he can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. “You’re staying with grounders, is that it?” Bellamy looks away with a shaky sigh. “I noticed you cover your tracks every time you leave this place, I thought you just didn’t want me to follow you but – you’re with them. After everything that’s happened, you went back to _them_.”

“It’s not what you think,” Clarke denies quickly. She curls her hands over his biceps and urgently tugs at him, looking up at him plaintively. “It’s – complicated.”

Bellamy snorts and draws back. “It’s not actually. It’s simple. _I_ stayed. I practically begged you to stay,” he says harshly, desperately. He looks like a thunderstorm, angry and scary and volatile. Hurt. “ _You_ left.”

Clarke reels back. She thought he understood why she had to leave, and she knows she hurt him, but. There are no absolutes. Neither one is completely right or wrong. And for him to just spit it out at her like that it just. “You didn’t stay for long. I imagine it’s quite cozy in Mount Weather,” she bites out, voice dripping with sarcasm.

She regrets it immediately. Clarke thought they were long past the petty arguments, hurting each other with their words just because they could. But perhaps her absence has taken them back to the beginning.

His eyes ice over. “We lost people Clarke,” he says lowly, flatly. The emotional void in his voice speaks volumes to her.  “We weren’t prepared for the first snow. Three of our own are gone. We had guards losing toes to frostbite and all the kids came down with pneumonia –”

She breathes harshly, all the blood being pumped by her hammering heart rushing to her ears, deafening her but not enough to drown his words. “Please don’t –”

“– Raven’s immune system is weakened and a fever nearly killed her –”

“– stop talking –”

“– your mom too –”

“Why are you telling me all this?” Clarke sobs. “Your messages – you said everything was fine.”

“What was I supposed to say?” Bellamy rubs his face, his sigh so weary and potent she feels it in her gut. “We weren’t fine. We were dying. Going back to Mount Weather was our only choice, but I thought – I knew you’d come back before you were ready if you knew how bad things were. I didn’t want to force you.”

Her eyes find the message he wrote before she found him, claiming everything was all right. It’s not the lie that hurts, but the intention. He meant to protect her. He’s always doing that. What has she ever done for him in return besides disappoint him and abandon him when he needs her the most?

Well, she is protecting him now, keeping his father’s existence from him. Even if he hates her, for lying, for leaving, it’s still better than him knowing his dad is alive and doesn’t want him.

He snorts. “Guess I didn’t have to worry about that.”  


Bellamy shoves the medicine onto her hand. Clarke almost drops it, she’s too busy cataloguing the raw anguish written all over his face. She closes her eyes, eager to escape his pain, and maybe hide her own. “Bellamy, I promise I would explain if I could – ”

“No need,” he says gruffly and shoulders past her. “Don’t keep your people waiting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be expecting your feedback under this rock over here *hides*


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One hug, two hugs. One plan, two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your encouraging comments and your patience! I hope you like this chapter and I'm sorry for the long wait :-)

“Cold. So cold. No.” 

Clarke eyes Noah worriedly, cupping a hand over his forehead. His fever still hasn’t broken since she administered the antibiotics a couple of hours ago, nor has he recovered consciousness. Shivers wreak his body and, as hot as he feels to the touch, he seems equally freezing on the inside. Only a light sheet covers him, so as not to trap the heat within his body, and he clutches it desperately.

“Please. Don’t do this to me.”

What started as nonsensical mumblings coming from his cracked lips are now full sentences. He appears to be trapped in a nightmare or a memory. He fights against her, confusing her for someone who tries to harm him and begs his ghost to stop his torture.

“I have a family,” he begs huskily, tears thickened in his throat. Clarke doesn’t bother to wipe her helpless tears and applies a cold cloth to his heated forehead. “No.” Noah shakes his head slowly, trying to get away.

“Shh Noah, you’re going to be okay.”

“Don’t do this,” he whimpers lamely. “Let me out. Let me out…”

He falls into a fitful sleep. Dead tired and weary, Clarke stays by his side, applying cold cloths and monitoring him. 

She hopes it’s not too late to save him. The penicillin should rid his body of the infection and the morphine should help him rest, but it’s been too long since he was injured and he’s lost too much blood and weight. 

Clarke curls into the armchair and wraps a blanket around her. Her eyelids droop and she allows herself to drift to sleep for just a moment, but Bellamy’s face haunts her, betrayal and hurt painted on his features.

She should’ve said something, explained the situation somehow. Instead she let him go without a word and rushed to Noah’s side.

“Won’t fight…”

Noah’s voice startles Clarke. She drags the sheet higher over his chest, feeling his temperature with the back of her hand against his neck.

“I won’t fight you anymore,” he promises.

For a second Clarke thinks he’s talking to her, but his eyes remain firmly shut. 

“Ford. I won’t fight you. Please.”

Clarke frowns. The only Ford she knows of was Chancellor when her parents were young and hadn’t still married. Wells’ dad always spoke fondly of the man who had been his mentor and taught him everything he knew. Clarke’s not sure on the exact sequence of events, but Diana Sydney of Factory Station was his successor, elected over Jaha, who had been the favorite of Alpha Station. She wasn’t in office for long though as her policies in favor of the minor stations quickly turned the Council against her and they eventually voted her out. Elections were called again with Jaha running unopposed. He was Chancellor for as long as Clarke can remember. 

Noah left the Ark twenty years ago by his own account, which would coincide with the last year of Chancellor Ford’s government. Is it possible there was some sort of conflict between them? But how? Noah was a lowly factory worker and everything she knows of Chancellor Ford indicates he never set foot outside Alpha and Go/Sci stations.

Clarke bathes his forehead and neck with a cold cloth. Noah’s breathing evens out and he seems to rest a little better. For that she gives thanks. Maybe she can take a quick shower and nap while he sleeps.

Her stomach growls when she crosses the kitchen area on her way to the bathroom. Clarke tries really hard to remember when was the last time she ate, but it’s a futile effort. So it’ll be a shower, a snack and then a nap, provided Noah doesn’t require her assistance. 

He sleeps through the night and his fever abates. She finds him lucid the following morning and Clarke almost faints with the force of her relief. 

Noah smiles at her from the bed, pale and tired looking, but without the fog of fever clouding his eyes. “Hey sweetheart. I’m not dead.”

“No thanks to you,” Clarke replies, her voice thick with relief as she refuses to let the tears welled up in her eyes fall. “How are you feeling?”

“Awesome. I was thinking I’d go for a jog later.”

“Don’t joke. You nearly died.”

He sobers. “I know. Thank you for keeping me alive.”

Clarke shakes her head and bends over him to examine his injury. It’s not red and inflamed anymore and a fine scab has formed over the stitched skin. 

She sits back and stares at Noah, considering. He is weak and in no condition to fend for himself. Taking advantage of him at this moment would surely be classified as a dick move, but Clarke literally cannot hold back anymore.

“You lied to me,” she accuses.

His eyes widen with surprise for a second, then he frowns and glances up. “Which time?”

“You’ve lied to me more than once?” Clarke seethes.

“Maybe,” he hedges.

“I went to Camp Jaha,” she grits out. “Imagine my surprise when I found it deserted. And later, Be – my friend confirmed that they did move into Mount Weather. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I did tell you!”

“No, you said you were going to tell the Ice Nation that they had.”

“Exactly. You were the one who assumed it was a lie,” Noah retorts. “I remember telling you they’d believe me, which they did, because it was the truth.”

Clarke chokes on an outraged breath. “You’re impossible! Why did you let me believe it was a bluff? How long have you known?”

He sighs. Then, reluctantly, he says “I circled the camp after the first snow and saw they were gone. Then when we went to the dropship, I noticed your friend’s tracks led in that direction.”

Clarke snorts. “So you made an educated guess?” she asks sarcastically.

“No, I also scouted the Mountain to confirm my suspicions.”

“We’re together all the time. When did you find the time to do that without me noticing?”

He blushes and glances away. “I’m fond of midnight strolls.”

She can’t believe him. “I deserved to know. Why didn’t you tell me?” she demands.

Something that looks suspiciously like pity shines in his eyes as he looks at her. “I knew you would be hurt and upset and I wanted to spare you. I’m sorry.”

Clarke hears the sincerity in his voice and sees it reflected in his eyes. He has a point. Finding out the truth was devastating and Clarke doesn’t know she’ll ever be able to go back there. She gets that he meant to protect her. 

She swallows a bitter laugh. If only he knew his son used that same reasoning to keep that same secret. What is it with the Blake men and their tendency to lie to protect her?

“You saw your friend,” Noah says, pulling her out of her musings. “Is that where the medicine came from?”

Clarke nods curtly, feeling the familiar sting of tears and refusing to let them fall.  _ If I start now, I won’t be able to stop. _

“How did you know Chancellor Ford?” she asks, abruptly changing the subject. If she thinks about the last time she saw Bellamy, she will fall apart. 

Noah visibly reels back. “Why do you ask that?”

“The fever gave you hallucinations,” she explains. “You said some things.”

“What things?” he barks.

“Nothing that made much sense,” she bites back. 

He glances away abruptly, shaking his head. “He was Chancellor before I – He was the Chancellor. That’s all.”

“You were begging for your life, for your family.”

“Clarke,” he says warningly.

“You had a wife right? A son?”

Noah eyes her warily. “Why the sudden interest in my past?”

“It’s not sudden,” Clarke stresses. “What happened Noah?”

“I’m tired.” He tries to turn to his side and with his back to her, forgetting his injury. He winces and falls on his back again, pale and winded.

“Tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m ashamed!” he growls, voice catching. “I do not want to talk about this.”

“What did you do?”

“I – ” He sighs wearily, hiding his face behind his hands. “Please don’t make me do this. Not now.”

Sympathy uncoils within Clarke. “But you’ll tell me?” she prods, softly this time.

Noah looks at her for a long moment before he nods, a resigned look etched over his face.

* * *

“Okay, let’s go over this again. You met with the Ice Nation’s scouts in this spot. How many were there?”

They have come back to the place Noah was ambushed to investigate. It’s a small clearing, the surrounding trees stand close together and the low hanging branches providing cover from above. An unfamiliar symbol carved into one of the trees catches Clarke’s eye, an open palm with a spiral at the center. 

“You know I didn’t hurt my head right?” Noah scowls. “My memory works just fine.” Clarke just stares at him and he sighs long-sufferingly before recounting, again, the events of the attack. “There were three of them. Von, the scout I generally meet with, Luken a man I never met before and their prince, Roan.”

“Was that unusual? The prince meeting with you I mean.”

“Yeah,” he snorts. “The Commander banished him a few years back and as far as I know she hasn’t lifted the banishment. It was a punishment to both him and the Ice Queen. Azgeda was forbidden to receive him on their lands. The fact that they’ve welcomed him back against the Commander’s express orders can only mean one thing.”

“They’re going against the Coalition.”

Noah nods. “Anyway, they wanted to know where Skaikru stands. They weren’t exactly happy that they’ve colonized the Mountain, but they gave me the impression that they’d overlook that if Skaikru aligns with Azgeda against the Commander.”

“So they’ll approach our people next?”

“Possibly. If anything, the ambush is bound to accelerate their plans.” Noah points to a spot between the trees. “The first arrow came from there. It got the prince on his shoulder. The second arrow came from there,” he signals to the opposite direction and then turns sideways. “And three rangers attacked from this side. At that point it became clear we were surrounded.”

Clarke half-listens to the rest of the tale. She knows it by heart at this point. Weapons were drawn and fighting ensued. Prince Roan took out three trikru warriors in the time it took the first one to drop to the ground. Luken sneaked away to dispatch the archers while Von and Noah engaged the other fighters. Noah was hurt badly but before the trikru warrior could deliver the death blow, Luken intercepted him and was fatally wounded. 

Trikru retreated. Luken died. The prince and Von didn’t spare many words to explain why he would throw herself in front of a blade to protect Noah. They only said that he reminded him of someone he owed a blood debt to for freeing him from the Mountain. 

Which of course didn’t make any sense to him, but they were gone before he could question them further and his own injuries pressed him to get back home.

To Clarke it makes sense. She’s not surprised all the grounders Bellamy rescued in Mount Weather remember him and he is the spitting image of Noah. Perhaps the guilt of having dishonorably abandoned Bellamy in Mount Weather after he saved them drove that man, Luken to make it right by protecting a perfect stranger just because he reminds him of the person who gave him back his freedom.

As he speaks, Noah moves slowly around the clearing, absently holding his side. She took the stitches out this morning but he still needs to take it easy. He stops before the tree with the carved figure, frowning. He reaches out and touches the white paint smeared on it, his fingertips coming up stained.

“This is fresh. They might still be around here.”

"We are."

Clarke turns around, startled. Her hand finds her firearm strapped to the inside of her fur jacket and pulls it out in one swift motion, aiming it at the tree strangers quietly breaking through the bush into the clearing.

They blend into their snowy surroundings, their clothes primarily a light blue and white stained fur. The speaker is the only one with his face uncovered, shoulder length hair a wild mane framing the sharp angles of his face. The other two flank him, white paint around their eyes and the lower half of their faces obscured by what appears to be bone fragments. 

“ _ Ai laik Roan, hainofa kom Azgeda _ ,” the speaker says, his voice a low rumble that demands attention. He studies her face. “ _ Wanheda _ ,” he nods.

Fury bubbles within Clarke and her finger caresses the trigger.

Noah rests his hand on her shoulder. She looks at him and catches the silent meaning in his eyes. These people are not a threat.

She lowers her gun.

Noah slowly saunters towards them. “ _ Hainofa _ ,” he bows deferentially. Then he offers the man on the prince’s right a hand and they lock on an arm-hold. 

“We were not sure you would live,” the warrior Clarke assumes is Von releases Noah and removes his mouth piece, revealing a smirk.

“I almost didn’t,” Noah tilts his head in her direction. “Clarke patched me up to rights.”

Roan stares at her inquiringly. “You command life as well?”

Clarke lifts her chin, refusing to cower. “Sometimes.”

He hums, low and short, and then turns his gaze on Noah. “You did not mention any involvement with Wanheda.”

Noah remains at ease, keeping the amused look fixed on his face. But he moves ever so gracefully so that he stands between Clarke and the prince, should he get any ideas to attack her. “You didn’t ask.”

Roan narrows his eyes. “I did.”

“Oh?” Noah shrugs and taps his left ear. “Partial hearing loss from back when I was a guest to the Ingranrona. Sorry.”

Roan stares at him for a second before looking over his shoulder at Clarke. “You are being hunted.”

“By whom?”

“Me, at Lexa’s orders.”

Clarke juts her chin out and glares at him. “Then what are you waiting for?”

The girl to Roan’s left snorts. “ _ Azgeda nou badan dei gada de op nowe _ .” She removes her face covering. Her features are striking. “My name is Echo.”

“So you don’t follow Lexa anymore?” Clarke asks, taking a few steps in their direction.

“I was a guest,” Roan says, smirking briefly at Noah. “In her tower for many years. She released me under one condition. Bring Wanheda before her and she would lift my banishment. I agreed, but never expected her to hold up her word. Not that it matters anymore. A vote of no confidence will be called soon.”

“What does that mean?”

“The Commander can be voted out unanimously and a new Commander will be chosen,” Noah explains. “Trikru would never go for it though.”

“Lexa’s rule is tenuous. She sacrificed too many to save a few, shook hands with our greatest enemy and betrayed an ally. Once the challenge is issued she will have to fight to remain in power. Her against our greatest warrior,” Roan.

“What happens to your coup if she wins?”

The prince shrugs. “War. The Coalition will disband. She doesn’t have enough loyalists to keep her safe. Eventually, she will die and her spirit will choose a new Commander.”

“And what do you want with my people?” Clarke asks finally. This is why they’re here, after all.

“You pose the biggest threat to her. You have destabilized her. The Coalition would still stand by her if she hadn’t betrayed  _ you _ . She needs you to do one of two things to ensure she remains Heda: die at her hand or bow before her.”

“Why?”

“Because you are Wanheda. You command death.”

“They believe the strength of one’s enemies can be absorbed when they kill them,” Noah supplies. “I imagine the same principle holds when you make someone publicly state they hold power over you.”

Clarke seethes. She will never give Lexa the satisfaction of bowing before her, not after what she’s done. And if she wants her dead, she is more than welcome to try.

“So that is why Lexa wants me. What do  _ you _ want with me and my people? Do you want to kill me and absorb my power too?”

“All we seek is a mutually beneficial friendship,” Roan assures her. “Rumors of your people colonizing the mountain have reached the other clans and they are displeased. The Coalition only allowed your people to remain on the grounds of your ship’s landing, yet the embargo was disregarded.”

“Mount Weather was spoils of war. It’s ours for the taking,” Clarke claims. She might never wish to set foot there, but it’s her people’s home for the time being and the only thing that’s keeping them alive. No one is allowed to take it from them.

Roan gives her a calculating look. “Support us against Lexa, we will support your claim.”

“I don’t speak for my people anymore,” Clarke confesses. It’s the truth. She’s been gone for more than three months, she has no right to make any sort of decision that will affect them. “I’m not in charge.”

“What about the one you call Bellamy?” Echo asks. 

Next to her, Noah tenses and inhales sharply. Clarke curses internally. Of all the ways he could’ve found out…

“He freed us. We owe him our lives,” the girl continues.

Clarke nods. “He doesn’t have the authority, not completely, but I can arrange a meeting with those who do. How soon do you need an answer?”

“My mother will be traveling to Polis within the fortnight to issue the challenge. Ideally, this matter should be settled by then,” Roan says.

“Stay in the area,” Clarke says as a way of agreement. “We’ll let you know the time and place.”

“Until then,” Roan bows curtly before the three turn around and leave the clearing.

As soon as they’re gone, Noah turns to face her, hands fisted at his hips and a thunderstorm in his eyes.

“After all the shit you gave me for lying to you, you keep this from me?” he bites out. 

Clarke opens her mouth to answer but no words come out. He shakes his head and barks a laugh, turning his back on her. “I didn’t know for sure until recently.”

“How long have you known? No wait, how long have you  _ suspected _ ?”

“When you told me you were from the Ark,” Clarke confesses. “He looks a lot like you.”

He glares at her. “Don’t.”

Anger rises up with Clarke. “I’m not going to apologize for protecting him.”

“Protecting him from me?!”

“You left him! You climbed into an escape pod and chose dying on Earth rather than staying with your family. And you have no idea what their life was like, what Bellamy had to go through. I care about you Noah,” Clarke tells him. “But I had to be sure this wouldn’t hurt him. Bellamy comes first.”

Her vehemence seems to calm him. “I didn’t leave them because I wanted,” he appears horrified that she would think that. “I – fuck. Is that what you think of me?” 

Clarke gives a little shrug, speechless.

Noah hides his face in his hand, then pulls his long hair back. “I was exiled. I – ” He barks a laugh, a short, harsh sound, and he looks down. “I was young and I thought I could start a revolution, change things. You ever been to Factory station?” At his questioning look, Clarke shakes her head.  “We worked on half air, ten hour days, back to back shifts. We didn’t have any safety gear. I saw friends of mine losing fingers or getting the heads bashed in.” He swallows thickly. “Machines malfunctioned all the time and people got killed. We had pregnant women and teenagers picking up shifts to help out home. The Council only cared about production levels so they turned a blind eye. We were the most populated station, yet we had the lowest monthly water allotment. The right to unionize was suppressed from the Exodus Charter, as was the right to strike, so we couldn’t protest, not legally. We couldn’t do anything,” he says, desperate. “I couldn’t go on thinking this was the world I would leave to my son, so some of my pals and I, we tried to mobilize the workers. We wanted to stand up, demand safe working conditions and fair salaries.

“The Chancellor didn’t like it. He did everything in his power to smother us. He couldn’t bring us up on charges, not when the divide between Alpha and the lesser stations wasn’t ignored by the population and it generated unrest. If he formally accused us he’d make us martyrs and have a full-blown mutiny in his hands. Still, some of my friends were brought up on bullshit charges like buying moonshine or dress-code violations and got floated. Many backed down after that because they had families and they didn’t want to die for the cause. I didn’t either. I had Aurora and Bellamy. But I wanted a better future for my son. I wasn’t going to stop tryin’ just cause I was afraid.

“So I kept at it. We went on strike, I ran for section chief and won. I filed petitions with the Station Chief and the Council. And I kept my nose clean so they couldn’t pin anything on me so they could float me.

“One day on my way home from work guards knocked me out and dragged me to B-deck. Chancellor Ford was there with his protégé, Jaha. They beat me within an inch of my life and then they loaded me into the shuttle. I begged him,” his voice breaks. “I begged, I promised I would stop making trouble but.” He stops with a ragged breath, grief etched in his features. “I couldn’t stop them. It wasn’t my choice, coming here,” he confesses, eyes lost in the memories. “I was so sure. Sure the shuttle would be to too old to hold through the atmosphere. Sure the landing would kill me. Sure the air would be toxic. Sure I would die. But none of that happened,” he says raggedly. “I was alive and I would never see my family again. I wanted to die every day this goddamned planet didn’t kill me, and if I wasn’t such a coward I would’ve let it.”

Clarke blinks rapidly to keep away the tears. “You’re not a coward.” 

Noah snorts, avoiding eye contact. 

“Don’t you see? You’re still here for a reason,” Clarke insists. “Your son and your daughter need you – ”

“My  _ what _ ?”

“What?”

“You said my son and my  _ daughter _ ? I have a daughter?”

Clarke gapes. Shit. Shit shit shit. She’s not handling this conversation well at all. “I didn’t mean for you to find out like that. But yes. Her name is Octavia and she’s actually the reason Bellamy came down with the dropship in the first place. She was locked up after they found out she existed and they were planning to send all us delinquents down to the ground, so Bellamy got into the dropship – ”

Noah holds up his hand to stop her. “Hold on. She was in lock up. How old is she?” 

Clarke has admittedly only thought about this in passing. Once she realized Noah was Bellamy’s dad her mind defaulted to him being Octavia' father as well and given that she was born illegally, she wove this  fabulous romantic tale of Aurora finding out she was pregnant right after she lost Noah, and as it was the last piece of him she had she couldn’t bear to have the pregnancy terminated as the law mandated. It all made perfect sense  so she didn’t stop to think about it any further, especially when she had so much in her mind. Letting go of the guilt from irradiating Mount Weather takes  _ active  _ effort from her part and hiding Bellamy’s existence from Noah and vice versa was just added stress... 

But now Noah is asking about Octavia’s age and this is something that didn’t really occur to Clarke before, despite being an all-important detail. She never thought to do the math.  “She’s seventeen,” Clarke breathes and her heart breaks a little bit as she watches him.

Noah has been on the ground for twenty years by his own account. Either Aurora had an unnaturally long pregnancy or Noah is simply not Octavia’s father.

Why didn’t she think about it earlier? How can she be so stupid? “I’m sorry I didn’t realize – ”

He looks away. “It’s fine. So when they found her I’m assuming Aurora was…”

He lets the sentence die, unable to articulate the word that was meant to finish it. Clarke nods. 

“And Bellamy followed his sister to the ground?”

“To protect her,” Clarke says thickly.

Noah smiles, a little sad but with pride and love shining in his eyes. “That’s my boy.” He clears his throat. “We should get going. We can still make it to the dropship before nightfall if we use the tunnels.”

Clarke takes his hand and gives it a squeeze, then gets over herself and hugs him. He sighs with his entire body and hugs her back.

* * *

Clarke stares blankly at the section of metal wall of the dropship. The message she left the last time she came while Noah was recovering is still there, untouched. It’s been almost two weeks since she wrote it and there’s no sign that Bellamy actually came here in that time and actually got it. In fact, the last time he came to the dropship was a couple of days before that, when he’d left her another round of ammo, a bottle of ibuprofen and answered her previous question where she’d wondered how everyone was doing.

_ We’re managing just fine.  _

That was it. No further contact beyond that. 

“Don’t let your brain go there,” Noah says, standing beside her. “That last blizzard was a bad one. He’s probably holed up in Mount Weather.”

Clarke’s lips tighten to a thin line. “Or maybe he’s got more important things to do than come all the way out here every week just to see if I’m still alive.”

Noah rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m serious. He was so hurt the last time I saw him. Maybe he doesn’t care anymore.”

“You can’t hurt someone if they don’t care about you,” he says sagely.

Clarke side-eyes him. “Trust me, you can still do plenty of damage.”

“So what now? We need to set up that meeting with Roan. Do you think you can handle that?”

Can she? Going back to Mount Weather? Clarke honestly doesn’t know. But for her people, she’ll just have to pull up her big girl panties and  _ try _ .

Before they move, the soft crunch of feet stomping on the snow reaches them, followed by loud barking. Clarke and Noah share a wide-eyed stare. “Is that him?” Noah whispers excitedly, bolting to the door. 

Clarke fists a hand on the back of his jacket, stopping him before he gets too far. “You need to hide. Now.”

“What? No,” he shakes her off.

“Noah, we’ve been over this. You have to let me talk to Bellamy before you see him,” she pleads. Noah stares wistfully at the piece of parachute fabric covering the door. “He thinks you’re dead. Seeing you will confuse him,” Clarke argues frantically. “He’s always armed, he might just shoot you on sight. I am not letting that happen. Please.”

He swallows and tears his gaze from the door. With a curt nod he walks away and deftly climbs the rungs, disappearing to the upper level of the dropship just seconds before Bellamy walks in.

“Hey.” He stares at her warily, his face a careful blank mask. 

“Hi,” she says softly. “I’m so glad you’re here, I need to tell you something.”

Bellamy glances around the dropship. “You alone?” 

“Yeah,” Clarke replies, hesitantly stepping closer to him.

He presses his lips to a tight line and tilts his head to the side, staring pointedly at the ladder Noah disappeared through seconds ago. “There are two sets of tracks outside, Clarke.”

She curses inwardly. “I know what you must be thinking...”

“I think I should really just stop wasting my time.” The words hit her like a blow but worse than them it’s Bellamy’s face. He looks weary, like he’s giving up and admitting defeat. With a ragged sigh, he shakes his head and plops down on an overturned crate, perching his elbows on his splayed knees and dropping his face to his hands. He cards a rough hand through his hair and his eyes find hers. “You’re not coming back. I get that. You made your choice and it wasn’t me – us,” he corrects quickly. “But I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep coming here hoping this time you might come home.”

“Mount Weather is not my home. I thought you understood that.”

“Home is not a place. It’s the people, it’s a family. And,” he licks his lips, a gesture she recognizes as him getting excited and anxious about proving a point. “We’re not saying inside for long. Lincoln says winter is close to ending, we’ll start building soon. We have a plan to expand a radius of about fifteen miles from the base. The mountain terrain is harsh but it’s doable and the grounders have no claim there. You could come back and never get closer than a hundred feet to Mount Weather, and still  _ be _ there.”

Clarke sits next to him, their arms brushing together. “I know Lexa forbid you from taking charge of Mount Weather,” she says softly. He stiffens beside her. 

“Kane says they can work it out. She’ll see reason. She has too,” Bellamy insists. 

“No she doesn’t. She has an army big enough to back her up.”

“She wanted us to stay where Alpha Station landed but forbid us from growing food or even hunting large game,” Bellamy spits. “They were gonna starve us out. She doesn’t have to like that we took the mountain, she just has to fucking accept it.” A moment of silence passes. “Is that where you’ve been?”

Clarke frowns at him, incredulous, and he shrugs. “Monroe said she heard you making plans to visit Polis.”

“That was before… before everything happened.” Clarke swallows and glances at him from the corner of her eye. “Bellamy, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s about your f– ”

The sound of threatening growling reaches them, followed by loud, sharp barking.

“What is that?”

Bellamy holds up a finger to his lips and Clarke quiets down. “It’s Atlas. He’s letting me know something’s wrong,” he explains in a whisper. 

They move as one and get to the door. They share a look and Clarke nods as Bellamy slowly parts the parachute flap and sneaks a glance out.

Half a dozen trikru warriors fan out between the gate and the dropship ramp, all warily watching Atlas. Imposing, the large wolf guards the ramp with vicious determination, growling threateningly and bearing his deadly fangs.

Bellamy bows his head so close to her his lips brush the shell of her ear. “Go upstairs, get your friend and get the hell out. I’ll keep them busy at the front, you can get away through the hole Murphy blew up on the second level.”

“Are you crazy? No,” Clarke refuses.

“I’ll be fine. The truce has held this long, I’m not going to do anything stupid.”

She curls her hand on his wrist, clinging urgently. “You don’t understand, Lexa sent people after me. She wants me dead.”

He licks his lips, staring into her eyes. “All the more reason to shake them off your trail.”

“No.”

Bellamy folds his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. Clarke clings to his shoulders feeling the sting of tears in her eyes. He holds her close for a long moment, nearly bringing her off her feet and rocking back and forth. They pull back at the same time, their faces only inches apart. His forehead drops to touch hers as they breathe the same air. “Go,” he rasps, and before Clarke can stop him he steps out of the dropship.

She almost follows him but Noah’s sharp whisper stops her. “Clarke!” he urges her to climb the rungs and with a heavy heart, Clarke follows him up. 

They fly up the ladder and jump out of the blown-up hole in the second level, landing with a dull thud in the snow. Hugging the side of the ship, they slowly coast by it, Noah quietly wincing and holding his injured side.  

Clarke peeks through the side of the ship. At the foot of the ramp Bellamy slowly disarms, lowering his rifle before removing his thigh holster and his hunting knife, displaying all the weapons on the ground before him. “ _ Ai gouba ogonzaun kom Heda in. _ ”  The words fall tightly from his lips, perfectly enunciated but lacking the easy flow of the grounder language, as if he had to practice the sentence over and over again but hated every second of it.

There are four grounder warriors surrounding him, two keeping him at arrow point from a distance while another cautiously tries to approach Bellamy with his sword drawn. All under the watchful eye of their leader, who sits atop his war horse. He is having difficulty maintaining control of the animal though, what with Atlas standing protectively next to Bellamy and viciously snarling at everyone.

“ _ Weron Wanheda kamp raun? _ ” the leader barks. 

“I don’t know who that is,” Bellamy replies.

The leader nods to one of the archers who lowers his bow and reaches inside his furs for a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it, showing Bellamy a drawing. 

He shakes his head. “Haven’t seen her in months,” he lies. “I tracked her here but the trail ends.”

The leaders sneers. “ _ Sis im op. _ ” 

The grounder holding the sword suddenly launches himself at Bellamy. Atlas intercepts him, barreling against him. Despite technically being a pup according to Noah, the wolf is of a considerable size and easily manages to overpower the warrior and throw him on his back, sinking his fangs on his sword arm. The warrior shouts in pain and tries to shake Atlas off but the wolf jerks him around until the sickening snap of a bone breaking fills the air. 

One of the archers releases an arrow in Atlas’ direction but it barely grazes the animal. With a growl, Bellamy throws himself before his loyal companion to protect him from further attacks.

“Come on,” Noah urgently whispers in Clarke’s ear.

Dazed, she allows him to pull her away. They run undetected, taking advantage of the distraction, and duck into one of the hidden foxholes.

Back in front of the dropship, Bellamy heatedly argues with the grounders, his hands held over his head where they can see them.

“They won’t try to hurt him again,” Noah assures her, crouching beside her on the foxhole and avidly watching the scene unfold. “Pakstoka eat people, they don’t protect them. Bellamy has done the unheard of. They’ll respect him for that at least.”

The trikru warriors cut the feral wolf a wide berth. The snow is stained with stark red around the whimpering grounder curled on his side and holding his mangled arm.

“They’ll let him go?” Clarke asks, hoping against hope.

Noah glances at her before morosely shaking his head. “Look.” He juts his chin up.

Clarke’s eyes find the indicated spot up at the top of the ramp and her heart drops when she sees another two archers standing there, trained on Atlas and Bellamy. 

Bellamy and the leader exchange a few curt sentences but their voices are too low for Clarke to hear what they’re saying. In the end Bellamy swallows and nods, and kneels beside Atlas. He ruffles the thick fur around his neck and gently caresses his hears as he whispers something unintelligible. Atlas nuzzles his neck as his tail drops and his ears flatten. He whines and licks Bellamy’s cheek. Bellamy stands. “Go on. Straight home.”

Atlas darts away, the snow crunching softly beneath his paws and disappears through the gate. Once he’s gone, the leader nods and one of his men approaches Bellamy and roughly shoves him to his knees. They tie his hands in front of him and tether the rope to the saddle. 

The grounders talk amongst themselves as they prepare to leave but Clarke is too focused on Bellamy to pay attention to a word they’re saying. He is very deliberately not looking her way or even trying to spot her. He doesn’t want to risk them finding out she is still around… or he doesn’t think she would stick around for him. The idea that he could believe she would abandon him makes her heart shrivel up and die a little, but it’s not important. If that’s the case, she’ll prove him wrong when she rescues him. She and Noah just need to come up with a sound plan. Bellamy will be free and meeting his long-lost father in no time.

Minutes later, the grounders start to leave, dragging Bellamy behind the horse. Clarke turns to Noah. “How do you want to do this? This foxhole cuts a direct path to the south ravine. We can intercept them there.”

Noah nods somberly. “We have only one shot at this. When we get there I want you high on a tree. I’ll distract them and you shoot them.”

“Deal.”

They move quickly through the secret passage. Clarke fights to subdue the fear coursing through her veins. Dread settles uncomfortably in her gut. Bellamy is counting on her. She is not going to let him down and she most certainly will not let fear stop her. If she lets herself feel it she will be of no help.

They make it to the south ravine with ample time to prepare their ambush. Clarke settles on a tree branch that affords her the perfect vantage point while Noah hides behind some snow banks. She hears the neigh of the horse and the soft treading of the trikru warriors before she sees them and prepares to line up her first shot.

But much to her dismay her hearing detects a much larger group moving to intercept the warriors that have taken Bellamy prisoner. The larger group receives them like old friends, both leaders shake hands and the man Atlas injured is taken by a few others and settled on the back of a horse. 

Clarke makes a head count and battles the urge to cry. Even if she didn’t miss a single shot, she doesn’t have enough bullets to take them all out. Noah is injured and while she doesn’t doubt he would lay down his life to try to rescue his son, there is no point in all of them dying right now. As far as she can see, Bellamy hasn’t been harmed and the grounders are leaving him alone for the most part. They will likely take him to Lexa to decide what to do with him.

She watches as one by one the grounders file out of her field of vision. She blinks away tears when Bellamy looks over his shoulder one last time, a flicker of hope flashing in his face for a second while he looks for something, before he shuts the feeling down and with slumped shoulders follows the grounders and fades into the dense forest.

She remains perched on her tree, choking on silent sobs and angrily wiping stubborn tears from her chapped winter cheeks until Noah calls her down. He notices her tear tracks but tactfully doesn’t mention it.

“We’ll get him back,” he promises.

“How? There were over two dozen of them. We could set upon them while they sleep but Bellamy will be heavily guarded.” Clarke shakes her head, defeated. 

Noah looks over her shoulder and his eyes widen in fear. “Don’t move.”

“What.” Clarke stiffens, watching his face as warily follows something approaching her with his eyes.

Suddenly, she feels something wet and warm touching her cold fingers. Clarke yelps but stays put. She looks down and finds Atlas, nuzzling her hand with his muzzle. He’s holding his left leg up, with caked blood sticking to his gray fur.

Casting wariness aside, Clarke kneels beside him. She pets him, hesitantly at first before realizing he decidedly enjoys the attention. She ruffles his fur and scratches under his chin as she carefully inspects his injury. It’s not serious, just a scratch from the arrow the grounder shot at him, but she worries it might’ve been poisoned. 

“He likes you,” Noah notes, crouching in front of her but keeping a safe distance from the large wolf.

“He didn’t before,” Clarke says. Atlas buries his nose under her arm, demanding more petting. “The last time I saw him he kept growling at me.” She frowns at him receiving a panting but very distinctive doggy smile in return. Contrary animal.

“You and Bellamy hugged for a long time. He probably recognizes his master’s scent,” Noah speculates, holding out his hand palm up for Atlas to sniff.

She likes the sound of that. Carrying something of Bellamy’s, that is intangible but important and distinctive. If she tries hard enough she thinks she can even get an inkling of his scent herself.

“What are we going to do? There’s no knowing what Lexa will do to Bellamy.” Clarke worries her bottom lip, absently carding her fingers through Atlas’ frothy fur. “We have to get to him before she gets a chance to hurt him.”

“We will,” Noah assures her with unfailing conviction. “But we need help.”

She swallows and nods. Clarke and Noah turn east in the direction of Mount Weather and start the long journey back. Atlas barks and runs ahead of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> “Ai laik Roan, hainofa kom Azgeda.” - “I am Roan, Prince of the Ice Nation.”  
> “Azgeda nou badan dei gada de op nowe.” - “Azgeda does not answer to that girl.”  
> “Ai gouba ogonzaun kom Heda in.” - “I observe the commander’s truce.”  
> “Weron Wanheda kamp raun?” - “Where’s wanheda?”  
> “Sis im op.” - “Grab him.”
> 
> Soooo what did you think? Feedback gives me life!

**Author's Note:**

> [I'm always here](http://www.bellohmyblake.tumblr.com)


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